


useless without you

by erzi



Category: ACCA13区監察課 | ACCA 13-ku Kansatsuka
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-24
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2019-08-28 05:44:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 54
Words: 73,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16717547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erzi/pseuds/erzi
Summary: a bunch of oneshots for our favorite carbohydrate-loving gays. everything is rated g unless noted otherwise.





	1. more?

**Author's Note:**

> over time i have written A Lot of ninojean for my eyes only, but i feel bad hoarding them in this fic drought. so here're the ones i think are good in one work bc most are p short. what can i say..... nino and jean r really in love and someone's gotta make that known

Nino leans his cheek into his palm, watching Jean drink. With each swallow, his Adam's apple bobs up and down; with the first few buttons of his shirt undone, the dip in his neck nestled between his collarbones can be glimpsed, admired, kissed-

The clink of glass on wood, and Nino is back in the present. Jean, pink-faced, has put down his empty drink, froth drying at the rims.

The smile comes naturally. "More?" Nino asks.

"Please."

Nino pours more beer, sliding the brimming mug back to Jean.

"Thanks," Jean says absently, curling his fingers on the hilt. And then his expression softens – a shy curl of his lips, color not brought on by alcohol but by something more real than that rising to his ears, a fond glance at nothing in particular to his left.

Nino's heart jumps to his throat.

"Director-General Mauve is so... good," Jean murmurs.

How quickly, coldly it plunges.

"Oh?" Nino says, consciously making his tone convivial, light. It is not the first time Jean drunkenly rambles about her, and so it is also not the first time Nino has to remind himself of who he is, what they are.

"She's just so..." Jean searches the air for what he wants to say. "So smart. And pretty."

"You should be a poet." He takes a hard gulp of his beer, hurting his throat a little on the way down.

"Her hair," Jean continues, thumping his elbows on the table, "is like... like..." Squinting, he leans forward, as far as he can, close enough that Nino's breath hitches. "Like yours," Jean says, his words ghosting over Nino's lips. Jean sits back down. "But hers is purprel- plurpel- purpur- pulurpier-" Jean pauses. "More purple." He takes a swig of his beer and then hiccups. "Is it weird I don't know her eye color?"

"What, you haven't stared longingly into her eyes? With this constant gushing, you've had me fooled," Nino says, a hint of bitterness slipping through, unintended.

"No," Jean says, with an 'isn't-it-obvious' frown, "that would be awkward."

"You haven't even noticed from talking to her and making normal eye contact?"

"No..." Jean crosses his arms, defensive. "To be fair, I don't see her that often."

Nino laughs, sardonically. "Jean, even if you saw her every day, I don't know if you'd notice."

Jean uncrosses his arms, palms flat on the table. "That's not true. I know your eye color. Deep blue, like the ocean from the distance."

Nino stills. 'Deep blue, like the ocean from the distance.' His pulse is erratic in his ears, in the tips of his fingers. He takes a hasty drink instead of replying, hoping he doesn't have to, because God knows what he'd say. Something stupid, something regrettable.

"Wait," Jean says, "do _you_ know her eye color?"

"Yes, it's purple."

Jean frowns. "How do you know that? You don't work for ACCA."

"What?" Nino says, caught a little off-guard. He recovers quickly. "Right. It was at the prince's coming-of-age ceremony. I asked to interview her, which meant looking at her in the eyes."

"But you remember." Jean's frown deepens, guilt in his face. "Don't tell me you also-"

"I'm not interested in her," Nino says, maybe a bit too soon.

He looks relieved. "Oh, good." A soft laugh escapes him. "I would have felt really bad if all this time, you've just sat there and taken everything I say about her, feeling the same..."

The corners of Nino's lips tighten upward in a forced smile. "No worries. She's not my type." Not _her_.

Jean gives him a little appreciative smile and moves on to talk about his day.

Nino is grateful for the switch in the subject, and listens even more attentively than usual, letting himself believe again everything is alright.


	2. where the eyes of the acca can't follow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspective nino gayness from ep 7

How easy it is to forget who he is. Years with this facade and Nino forgets it is there at all, this invisible wall between him and Jean he can never breach.

Sometimes, and too often lately, his heart will leap to his throat and he almost, _almost_ sets loose a string of words that would unravel everything and himself. He manages to reel himself in every time, but he fears one day his delusion will be grand enough that he will not stop himself.

And sometimes, the harsh reality of his situation smashes into him like glass. He, the son of a palace servant, living a lie of his own volition; Jean, the son of a princess, living a lie he was unwittingly gifted.

Jean looks at him, fondly. Past the wall. He points out Nino's outfit choice is that of someone who doesn't want to be seen.

It's cold here in Dowa, Nino counters, behind all the layers. And it is. But he is trying his damnedest to hide: from the king, who will be here, according to plan; from himself, desperately clutching on to what he has that he could never have had otherwise.

They tell them in the café the king will be there, please mind your manners, remove your hat, sir.

Can't even have this, Nino thinks, smiling politely, his insides beginning to ice.

Over breakfast, Jean is amiable, as ever, of course unaware of Nino's role in all this, and uncaring for the presence of the king. Nino can't focus on the conversation, or on his food; he picks and cuts and moves it around, playing his actor's role with Jean, trying to make himself as insignificant as possible.

He knows what will happen next, though. It only makes his blood run colder.

The king asks Jean to have breakfast with him, smiling warmly. Jean is surprised (Who wouldn't be, Nino thinks, and just imagine how he would react if he knew everything), but Nino has a script to follow. So he does. You should eat with him, Jean, he says.

Oh, okay, Jean says, as if now that Nino has said it, it's alright to do so.

Nino's nails dig into his palm. Breathe. He unclenches his hands, and holds his camera up. He has his role.

Could I take pictures? he asks, casting his eyes down so his hair falls on his face, so he hides his eyes, so he speaks more to his scarf. They won't be seen by anyone outside of this room, he says. And as he does, it hurts, and he wants to laugh, a dry madman's laugh.

He is given permission. Like this is all a natural conversation, not a pre-planned charade.

In conversing with the king, Jean is cautious and polite, just as he is with anyone he isn't well acquainted with. The king is jovial, beaming, his happiness eventually mirrored in Jean.

Nino keeps his distance. He does not exist. Snap, goes the camera. His mouth is dry, his hands are eerily steady, his pulse is distant. He doesn't want to look through the lens to capture these warm moments in time between the King and Jean. It's too ironic. It's too much.

Snap, goes the camera. Snap.


	3. conversation #7125

They've collected enough shot glasses by now that the tabletop is getting kind of crowded. Most had been Nino's, of course, but Jean has drunk a surprisingly large amount today, and is still awake.

"You're gonna give your liver a hell of a time," Nino quips, pushing his latest glass aside.

"That's tomorrow Jean's problem," Jean replies, rubbing his eyes.

Nino grins. "Can't argue that."

Jean calls for another round they promptly receive.

"To alcohol poisoning," Nino says, raising his glass.

"Cheers," Jean says with a muted smile.

A _clink_ , and then they down their drinks, barely tasting them as they travel smoothly down their throats.

Jean coughs lightly. Nino's eyes travel up Jean, looking at how pink he grows with each passing drink, from his neck, his cheeks, his ears. _Endearing_ , he thinks, resting his cheek on his hand.

"If you had to give up either alcohol or your motorcycle," Jean suddenly says, "which would you pick?"

Nino blinks. "Where'd that come from?"

"Who knows..."

"Well." Motorcycles are his hobby. God knows how much time he's spent riding. The maintenance, too; he loves the mechanics of it. But drinking. Alcohol is his companion, both bad – in the days spent working, in the nights spent alone – and good – in all the times spent with Jean. Bars are their place of congregation. Amid strangers, under flattering lights, with good beer or wine or liquor, they could forget about what waited outside, if for a little while, and just drink together.

So give up bikes, or give up Jean.

"My motorcycle," Nino says, preoccupied with the glass he's just emptied.

"Hmm," Jean says, "that took some thought." The curl to his smile could mean he's seen through Nino's mind.

 _I kind of hope so_ , Nino thinks, and he clears his throat. "And if you had to pick between giving up alcohol and cigarettes?"

"Cigarettes," Jean says immediately.

Nino leaves the glass be. "Really?"

"Yeah."

He almost asks why, foolishly hoping it'd be a reasoning like his own, but knows it wouldn't likely be so, and swallows the question.

"What about between alcohol and chocolate?" Jean says, and Nino purses his lips.

"Chocolate goes," he says, a little resigned.

Jean's eyes widen. "You like drinking over _chocolate_?"

"What, you'd pick keeping strawberries over alcohol?"

Jean glances sidelong, then fleetingly at Nino. "No," he says.

Like the idiot he is, Nino's heart forgets to beat for a second.

"Okay," Jean says, "so between alcohol and your dumb black turtlenecks?"

"'Dumb'?" Nino says, his hand going up to his neck, snug under one of those very turtlenecks.

"Because you own a thousand of them or something."

He has to laugh a little at that. "The turtlenecks would be donated."

"How many conversations do you think we've had?"

Nino takes a moment to process the sudden topic change. "As in a number?" He crosses his arms. "That's impossible to guess."

"We've talked a lot to each other these past fifteen years."

"Yes," Nino says, not knowing where this is going.

Jean leans forward. "So why can't you just say directly that when you pick drinking, you're picking me?"

Nino goes very, very still. And then. "Wait, you chose to keep alcohol each time, too!"

Jean pauses. "Okay, I'll say it. I was picking you." He rubs his neck, embarrassed. "Drinking means spending time with you. I wouldn't give that up."

"Me either," Nino says, meeting Jean's eyes, warm and fond and blue, knowing his own reflect the same.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 7125 = 7, 1, 25 = where the letters g, a, y numerically fall in the alphabet. i know, please hold ur applause


	4. don't you know that i love you

_He's not that heavy_ , Nino tells himself, shifting Jean's weight on his back. It's only a halfhearted attempt at deceiving himself, however. His strength isn't what it used to be. He smiles with a hint of sardonicism. _I'm getting old._

They had been drinking, again. Jean couldn't handle all he consumed, again. Nino carries him home, again. A comfortable, familiar routine; a comfortable, familiar shape pressing against him.

Jean mumbles something and wraps his arms tighter around Nino. After all this time, it still fills Nino with warmth.

"Maybe next time I should try carrying you bridal style," he wonders out loud to the night. He doesn't get a response save the low buzz of a moth running into a streetlamp. It would probably be easier to carry him that way, but mostly, it would be endearing. "Jean, make no response if you want to be swooped in my arms next time you drink too much."

No response.

Nino grins.

The security guards at Jean's building know Nino by now, and they let him in with no problem, though seeing their boss passed out probably helps. Getting inside his apartment is more tricky, as he has to balance Jean and dig around for his copy of the keys at the same time, and then unlock the door. He manages, with Jean still asleep.

Nino's back and arms are tired, and rather than risk dropping Jean walking all the way to his room, he decides to put him on a sofa. He lays him down gently and drapes a blanket over him. With a sigh, he sits down close to Jean, watching him breathe in, breathe out, deeply and evenly. There is an intimacy in seeing him like this, so vulnerable and peaceful. Nino smiles, all of his love on his face.

"See you in the morning," he says, quietly, leaning back on the sofa and closing his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title from [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lR4j0m7Ya_8) song, which honestly is not ninojean at all, i just like that line hfgj


	5. didn't i love you all the time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (this is the same fic-verse as the previous chapter/oneshot and the title also comes from that same song)
> 
> rated t

Skin against skin, nails digging deep, words whispered and revered, a bliss hot and bright – growing, growing, _growing –_ Jean gasps, quivers. Regains his breath.

His hair is sticking to his forehead, but still Nino kisses it, tenderly, before rolling off him and laying down beside him. His chest rises and falls to the rhythm of Jean's heart.

When Jean's hands are steadier, he reaches for and lights a cigarette, inhaling hungrily. He's careful not to exhale in Nino's direction, although Nino has turned on his side.

 _Is he asleep_ , Jean wonders, _or does he just not want to face me?_

This is all fairly new for the two of them, and neither is too sure of what to do after sex. Jean disguises his uncertainty with a smoke; Nino looks away or falls asleep. Privately, Jean thinks a part of Nino still feels hesitant and guilty for falling for the prince he was meant to protect. Jean reminds him – gently, often – that his blood is unimportant, that it doesn't define him, that they're not royal and subject, but two people who love each other. For the most part, Nino takes comfort in that, believing him. And there's the other times. Like now.

He turns his head to look at Nino, and his eyes fall on the bullet scars.

Now it's Jean who feels guilt gnaw at his stomach.

They have been over this once, shallowly. Jean wishes they could talk about it a little more, but he's not sure how to approach the topic appropriately. He can envision how that conversation would go:

Himself, asking Nino if dying for him was in his job description.

He, avoiding the question, changing the subject.

Himself, apologizing for putting Nino in danger.

He, pretending he didn't hear it.

Jean takes a drag, exhaling slowly, methodically. He then puts out his cigarette, and moves closer to Nino. "Are you asleep?" he quietly asks.

Nino stirs. "No," he says, voice thick.

 _He was asleep, and I woke him_. "Sorry..."

Nino tilts his head, smiling. "It's okay, don't apologize."

"Alright." He pauses, minutely. "Can we talk?"

"We already are."

"About _this_ ," Jean says, lightly touching the scars. Something flashes across Nino's face.

A few seconds tick by. Jean waits patiently.

"We had to eventually," Nino says. He sighs, turning around to face Jean. "So."

"So," Jean echoes. _Say it all_. "Was risking your life for me part of your job?"

Nino bites his lip. "It was implied," he says. "My official duty was to watch over you and Lotta. But I wasn't going to let anything bad happen to either of you."

"Because of our lineage?"

"You're the son of a princess, and I worked for the Crown, yes, but you're _you_." He gives a short, dry laugh. "In the end, it's _you_ I care about, and you I jumped in front of the bullets for."

"You could have _died_." It spills out from Jean, at last. "Because of me, you could have died. I would have had to live on knowing I still walked the earth because you didn't. It would just have been Lotta and me. Your life could have ended, right there, and the last I would say to you or see of you would have been-" He cuts himself off, exhaling scoff-like.

"You're right," Nino says. "I wasn't thinking about that then, though. All I had then were two options: let you get shot, or not let you get shot. The choice was obvious." Up close, Jean can see in Nino's eyes the weight he carried alone for so long. "If I hadn't done anything, _you_ could have died," he goes on, voice dropping, "and everything you feared is what I, in that tiny moment, also feared."

"I know," Jean says. He does. Yet, selfishly, he clings to all the would haves and could haves and what ifs of a situation, much worse, that didn't happen and still troubled him.

"You've thought of apologizing before," Nino says, factually.

Jean doesn't dispute it.

"You have nothing to apologize for. I chose to get in the way. You didn't choose to have a paranoid aunt who wanted you dead. And yeah, despite the pain, I'd do it again. Always."

The tension knotted in Jean's muscles loosens. Feeling a bit like he's just downed a glass of wine, he wraps his arms around Nino and kisses the scars.


	6. in this life and another

The tickets are smooth cardstock with what is probably real gold filigree. Their names are handwritten in delicate cursive; the royal seal of the Dowa family is stamped neatly at the bottom.

"He doesn't skimp," Jean mutters, handing Lotta her ticket.

"Shush, they're pretty," she chides, eyes flitting back and forth as she reads the invitation. "It says we can each take a plus one!"

Jean looks to the side. "Yes."

"Once, I would have said I'd bring Nino," Lotta says with a smile, "but I can't really do that now."

Jean returns the smile. "He'll be happy to dance with you, too."

"Oh, I'm definitely stealing him for a bit." She taps her bottom lip, thinking. "Should I bring someone? There's Rail, I guess. But then it wouldn't be the three of us, and I like the three of us. But he's never been to Dowa, and he and Magie could catch up."

"Whatever you want."

"Hmm... I'll bring him, then! He should see the palace, too. I'll go call him." She goes to her bedroom, and pauses outside, glancing back. "We'll need to go shopping, of course."

Jean wilts a little at that, though he knows she's right. "This Saturday."

"Okay!"

She disappears to call her date; Jean sits down on the sofa, calling his.

"Hello?" Nino says, a smile in his voice.

Jean's own smile widens. "Hey, Nino, are you free next Friday?"

"Yeah. Did you plan on going drinking that day? Because we decided to meet on Wednesday already."

"No, it's not that. It's the prince's birthday."

"Okay?"

"He's having a ball for the occasion. And I can bring someone. Do you want to come with me?"

"Why would I not want to? I'll go with you." Even over the phone, his affection is thick.

"Great. Come over Saturday, too. We need to get new tuxedos."

"Sure. See you then."

"Yeah. Bye." 

* * *

"Look how lovely it is!" Lotta coos as she steps out of the dressing room, twirling in a puffy red dress that reminds Jean of a rose.

"It is!" Rail says, his ears the same color as her dress.

"I like the blue one better," Nino says.

Lotta stills, smoothing her skirts. "Really?"

"Yes." Nino takes the blue dress from Rail's arms and holds it up by Lotta. "It matches and is as nice as your eyes."

Jean looks over at Rail, who seems miffed he didn't think of that line. Jean resists a grin.

"Your tuxedo is already dark blue. You don't mind if I wear blue, too?"

"Why would I mind?" Nino says, genuinely confused.

Jean shrugs.

"Never mind," Lotta sighs. "Which do you like better, Rail?"

"Hm? Oh, they're both really nice on you, Lotta!"

Lotta turns to Jean. "Jean?"

"I agree with Rail."

"That's not how you make decisions!" she says. "I'll go with the blue; thank you, Nino, for your opinion."

"Of course."

When they're back outside, shopping bags in tow, Jean swings the one he carries so it bounces off Nino's leg. 

* * *

At the airport, Rail talks entirely to Lotta, and even when she says something to Jean or Nino, his eyes, starstruck, don't leave her.

"He's not as bad as I thought he'd be. And he's really smitten with her," Nino says, close to Jean's ear, so no one else hears.

Jean shifts in his seat, facing Nino. "He is. Oddly, I can't tell how _she_ feels."

Nino crosses his arms, smirking. "Have I seen this before?"

"You were _smitten_ with me?" Jean says, laughing softly.

"I wouldn't say 'smitten.' That's for kids their age." Nino leans back in his chair.

"What would you say, then?"

"What it was, what it is." He kisses his temple. "Love."

They call their plane for boarding. Nino, Lotta, and Jean's seats are all side-by-side, leaving Rail alone next to two strangers. Lotta convinces one of the strangers to switch seats with her, and the relief is palpable on Rail's face.

"But he still has dumb mushroom hair," Nino mumbles, and Jean stifles a laugh.

In Dowa, a royal car awaits them, the driver opening the door for them. Although none of them say so out loud, they're all awed at the treatment, more so when they arrive at the palace itself. Palace workers carry their luggage to their rooms then leave them to their privacy.

"This is my first time in this wing of the castle," Nino says, sitting down on the bed in the room he and Jean are sharing, "and would you look at the perks... I think five people could fit in this bed. And they're serving lunch soon. Food we like, just like that." He lets himself fall back on the mattress. "When I was little, I never got to experience this part of the palace life. It's... weird."

Jean sits beside him. "I'm not used to this, either. I don't know that I could get used to it." He lays down. "It's kind of uncomfortable."

"The bed?"

"No, the bed is like a cloud."

"Okay, good; I was about to say you were extremely wrong."

Jean chuckles. "This life, I meant. Being waited on hand and foot is uncomfortable. I can lead my own life."

Nino hums in agreement.

Lunch is announced and eaten in the gardens, but not before introductions to the royal family. Rail is nervous and stuttering, and Nino's face flickers between reverence and discomfort. Jean stays close to him, making sure he's in physical contact with him in some way at all times – a hand on the elbow when standing, their thighs touching when sitting – although he's not sure if that leaves things better or worse.

Night is even more interesting.

"You," Jean says, laying sideways on the bed, "are very far from me, and not facing me."

Nino's side of the bed faces the window, bathed in moonlight. Nino's back is to Jean and cast in shadows.

"Don't pretend to be asleep," Jean says, scooting closer, as usual.

Nino's back tenses, and he turns to face Jean, but his eyes don't quite meet his. "Sorry. This is..."

"Still weird?" Jean supplies.

"Yeah." He sighs. "It's one thing to fall in love with a lost prince, another to be in a relationship with him, and another entirely to be sleeping in his ancestral house. I know you don't care for what runs through your blood, and that it doesn't matter," he adds, reading Jean's face correctly, "but for a long time, it did matter to me. It's hard to forget about that sometimes. It's especially hard here."

Jean's expression softens. "I understand. If you really want me to, I'll keep to the other side-"

"No," Nino says, quickly. "Stay right here. Don't let me push you away."

Jean smiles. "Never." He wraps his arms around him. 

* * *

Nino steps out of the bathroom wearing his tuxedo, as deep as twilight, smoothing down his hair.

Jean swallows. "You look... good."

Nino grins. "Thanks. You do, too. You should wear gray more often."

"If you buy me the clothes."

"Sure." He offers Jean his arm. "Ready?"

Jean takes it, feeling how steady and true Nino is. "Let's go."

The prince's party is held in a stately dining room that seemed empty and large before, but which is now crowded with people sitting along rows of tables. They take their assigned seats, right next to Lotta and Rail, and fairly close to the prince himself. They wave at him, and he genuinely smiles back.

"First is dinner," Lotta says, leaning towards them, "and then a dance!"

"A... dance?" Jean says.

"That can't possibly be surprising, Jean," Nino says.

"Um."

Lotta sighs; Nino laughs, and promises to teach Jean to waltz, at least.

"Why do you know how to dance?" Jean asks.

"Why don't _you_?"

Jean takes a sullen drink.

The food is excellent, as expected, and is comprised of so many courses that Jean tries not to think too much of how much this all cost. Just when he thinks he can't eat any more, the desserts are served, and he has four small strawberry tarts. Nino doesn't make fun of him because he himself eats enough mini chocolate parfaits to raise a few guests' eyebrows.

The dance itself takes place in an adjacent ballroom, even more grand than the dining room, with tall windows, glinting chandeliers, and a glossy checkerboard pattern tiled on the floor. The orchestra is already playing by the time the guests make their way over, and it takes no time at all for the people to fall in step. Lotta is so excited she nearly sweeps Rail off his feet, literally, as she rushes to join the wide circle of waltzers.

Jean, lost, looks at Nino. Nino takes him outside to the balcony.

"Here," he says, taking Jean's right hand in his left, his other hand resting on Jean's shoulder blade. "Now put your left hand on my shoulder."

Jean does so.

"You hear the music?" Nino asks.

Even through the glass doors, the orchestra is vibrant. "Yes."

"Do you notice that you can count along to it in three counts? One-two-three, one-two-three. Like that. The music matches up with the counting."

Jean takes a moment to listen to the music, finding what Nino's said to be true. "I hear it."

"We'll be dancing along to that beat. On one, I want you to step back with your right foot, and then hold that posture."

"Alright."

"One."

Jean steps back, Nino forward. They stay still.

"Now on two, step diagonally with your left, and hold that."

"Okay."

"Two."

He does so, Nino doing the opposite.

"And now, on three, bring your right foot back so your feet are together."

"Oh. This was simple."

Nino smiles. "Three."

"So now we repeat that until the music is over?" Jean guesses.

"Kind of. But backwards. Now, on this one, you're going to step forward with your left."

"Then on two slide my right foot, on three bring them together, and then repeat?"

"Exactly. You're a fast learner."

"It makes sense explained, but I think I might trip or step on you..."

Nino chuckles. "That's basically a given, so don't worry. We'll practice out here before going back inside. Take your time."

"I will."

"Okay, I'll start counting. Remember to move on one right away."

"Yes."

Nino waits a second for the beat of the music to return to one, and then he counts off. Jean accidentally goes forward instead of back, and steps on Nino. Embarrassed, he apologizes; Nino's laughter only makes his face feel warmer. They try again, with Jean starting off correctly, but occasionally fumbling where to go. Nino is clearly amused, but he doesn't make fun of Jean. Patiently, he leads him, and after some time, Jean can go through the steps smoothly. They trace their imaginary box, over and over, the repeated motions comforting and half-lulling Jean to sleep. He isn't sure when, but at one point, he rests his head on Nino's shoulder, and they're not waltzing anymore, just holding each other, taking tiny steps in a meaningless shape.

"Are we going to go back inside?" Jean murmurs.

"If you want to."

"It's getting kind of chilly out here," Jean says. And it is; night has long fallen, and the coolness of Dowa is not something he's used to. "So let's go in. But first-" He lifts his head, fingers curling around Nino's neck, and brings his lips to his, kissing him like Nino is water and he has not drunk in days. Nino melts into him, like the chocolate he tastes of.

"Back inside now?" Nino asks after a little bit, words grazing over Jean's lips.

"Mmm."

Despite the lateness, the party is in full swing. Jean doesn't spot Lotta, and feels somewhat guilty for not letting her dance with Nino. _Hopefully she understands_ , he thinks.

"Do none of these people sleep?" Nino wonders out loud. "I'm tired and I haven't been as enthusiastic as them."

"They're half your age."

"What are you implying?" Nino raises an eyebrow, but he's smiling.

"You're old and so am I." He loops his arm through Nino's. "Is there somewhere quieter? I don't want to be in this room much anymore."

"If there's one thing castles don't lack for, it's empty rooms." Nino begins walking, Jean following suit.

It takes a good distance away from the ballroom to stop hearing the party, and cool relief washes over Jean. The halls are dark and quiet, as they should be at this hour. Guards occasionally flank sets of doors, or patrol the halls themselves.

"Do you remember the palace's entire layout?" Jean asks.

Nino shakes his head. "There have been renovations since I lived here. As the son of a worker, there were certain areas I couldn't go into, so there's that as well." He pats Jean's hand. "We can manage, though."

Jean smiles. "You're not gonna get me lost?"

"If I do, it'll be fun."

They peek into many empty rooms, sometimes going inside to look around when it seemed worthwhile. A lot of the rooms turn out to look the same, with only changes in decor.

Until they come to the throne room.

It's guarded from the outside, and so they hesitate to step in. One of the guards reads their minds, however, and kindly allows them to go in, if briefly. In the darkness, and void of people, it's difficult to believe the head of a whole kingdom rules from this big, cold square.

"It definitely has a different atmosphere when it's daytime and occupied," Nino says.

Jean lets go of Nino so he can go look out from a set of windows. From here, the best view of Dowa is visible, spread out before him, twinkling in the night like fallen stars. It looks small from here, but Jean knows that it's distance tricking him. _And to think_ , he muses, _there's eleven other districts much larger th_ _a_ _n this one left to rule._

Eleven other districts, not twelve. He sometimes forgets Furawau's absence, and when he remembers, feels a slight melancholy. There should be thirteen districts.

_In the future, there'll be thirteen again_ , he decides, and believes in it.

He turns to see where Nino's gone off to. He is in front of the throne, standing very still. Jean walks up to him, curious. The only light is the moon's coming in through the windows, and so he cannot see Nino's face clearly, but he hears the awe and disbelief in his voice when he speaks.

"It's smaller in person," he says. "Less... imposing."

Jean regards the throne. "It's a chair, in the end. A fancy one, but a chair."

"In another life," Nino says, so quietly, "it would have been yours."

Jean shifts his weight, lips pursed. Nino is right. Had things played out differently, he would have remained a prince, and grown to be king. He isn't sure what he thinks of that.

"Hmm," he says, and walks up to the throne and sits. "This isn't comfortable."

Nino takes a few long strides to reach his side. "You probably shouldn't do that," he says.

Jean smiles up at him. "You're still next to me, like a guard. Would you have followed me to the palace, if I'd come back?"

Nino takes a moment to let the sight of Jean in the throne sink in. He closes his eyes, exhales, and reopens them, smiling back. "I would always be there beside you," he says, offering Jean a hand. Jean grasps it tightly and stands.


	7. just a little drunk

"Thanks for covering me," Jean says as he opens the door, the artificial air conditioning from the restaurant mixing with the natural cool air from outside. His hair flutters. "I can't believe I forgot my wallet..."

Nino follows him, smiling. "Can't say I'm surprised. And don't worry about it." The door shuts behind them and they begin walking down the street. Night has fallen, and the yellow streetlamps cast the light the moonless sky does not.

"Good thing I didn't pick a more expensive meal."

"It would have been fine," Nino says, waving his hand in dismissal. "I hope you liked the food, is all."

"I did. You have good taste."

Nino chuckles. "I like to think I do."

For a minute or so, they walk in comfortable silence, the nightlife of Badon a steady background buzz.

"Kind of wish I'd gotten a beer," Jean says, putting his hands in his pockets.

"Is walking around with me at night fully sober too odd for you or something?" Nino teases.

Jean smiles. "No. It would have gone well with the food."

"We can stop by a liquor store, if you want."

"It's fine; I have some at home. I think."

"Hm." Nino crosses his arms, smile playful. "I don't know if I trust that."

Jean runs a hand through his hair. "You're probably wise to do so," he says with a sigh. "But I don't want you to spend any more on me just because of a craving. It's fine, really."

"It's not, because now _I_ want alcohol. Some wine, though. And sweet."

Around the corner is a liquor store, so they make a quick stop. Nino doesn't even last a full minute before he opens the bottle with a pocketknife and takes a swig. He offers it to Jean after, and he takes a small drink.

"Huh. That's good," he says, handing it back to Nino, the brown bag crumpled around its body crinkling.

"I'm pretty sure you've had this before."

"Have I? I don't remember, and with that taste, I think I would."

Nino shrugs. "Well, whatever." He drinks, and hands it to Jean with a little smile. "You've been reintroduced."

They pass the bottle back and forth. With each drink, Jean feels his body relax, his mind haze. Walking gets difficult.

He puts a hand on Nino, for balance and to get his attention. "Can we stop f'r a momen'?" he says, his voice coming out more slurred than he thought it would be.

"Drunk already? Man, Otus, you really are a lightweight," Nino says, escorting him to a set of steps outside a building for sale.

"Shaddup."

Nino removes the bag from the wine, reading the label. He looks apologetic. "My bad," he says, "this has a higher alcohol content than you're used to." He takes a long drink, almost haughtily. "I'll forgive your intolerance this time."

Jean frowns at him and swipes the bottle away, taking a defiant swig. It goes straight to his head, and he winces. "I'm not gonna wake up happy," he mumbles. "'N I'm gon' blame you."

"Right, right."

They finish the wine, and even Nino's tipsy; he talks more, things he probably wouldn't have said in another state of mind. But Jean's far worse off than him and won't remember, anyway.

Nino stands with a grunt. "Come on," he says, offering Jean a hand. "I have to walk you home, now."

"'S what you get," Jean says, grasping his hand, rising to his feet. "For gettin' me drunk."

"I'll gladly take it," Nino says. He shifts Jean so they can support each other as they walk. They look somewhat like a couple, with one arm around the other. Jean, head drowsily bowed, doesn't notice. Nino does, and save for a smile, keeps it to himself.

There was not much distance left until Jean's building, and they get there some minutes later, slowed only by their own inebriated steps. Jean opens the door to his apartment, moving more out of habit than consciously. They make their way to a sofa.

"Let's not do that again," Nino says.

"Mmm," Jean says, blinking slowly, and slower still, and falls on Nino's shoulder.

Due to the alcohol clouding his brain, it takes Nino a bit longer to process this than normal.

"Damn it, Jean, don't be asleep," he says, but he knows it's pointless. "Not on _me_."

Jean's breathing is already the steady of deep sleep.

Well, now Nino can't go home. It doesn't disappoint or frustrate him, though. Actually, his chest flutters a little.

Nino lightly wraps an arm around Jean and carefully lays down on the sofa, Jean going down with him. Sleeping like that is more comfortable than sitting upright. And then some.

His last thought before falling asleep is, _I don't know how I'm going to handle this in the morning._  

* * *

What wakes Nino is a hand bunching his shirt. Blearily, he blinks his eyes open. Sees Jean curled up on him.

 _That was real?_ he thinks.

Jean stirs and groans. Nino's breathing stops.

Jean rubs his eyes, glances up, and their eyes meet.

Yesterday's alcohol still weighs on their tongues and minds, and putting thoughts to words is a chore. And the current situation does not help.

After what seems too long, Jean croaks, "Did I fall asleep on you?"

Nino clears his throat. "Yeah."

"Oh," Jean says, looking to the wall.

Another pause.

"Did you sleep okay?" Jean asks, sitting up, Nino's arm on him limply returning to his side.

Nino sits up too. But they still remain sitting close to each other. "I... guess. You?"

"Yeah," Jean says. He rubs his neck. "You're... comfortable."

"Oh," Nino says.

Silence, stretching.

Jean rests his head against the sofa's back. "This headache is going to kill me."

"I'll get you water," Nino says.

The sound of the tap wakes Lotta, who shuffles into the living room with a yawn.

"Morning, Jean," she says, and realizes Nino is there. "Hi, Nino. You're here early."

"He was here all night," Jean says, taking his drink from Nino. "We... kind of passed out on the sofa."

Lotta tuts. "You two need to drink more responsibly. Is it even worth it, when the next day you're like this?"

Jean immediately drinks his water. Not wanting to be the one to reply, Nino drinks from his own glass.

The avoidance doesn't escape Lotta. "That should have been a 'no'!" she scolds. "I don't get you guys." She sighs. "Well, I'll make breakfast. You can stay if you like, Nino."

He gives her a thumbs up in acknowledgment. When she leaves for the kitchen, they stop drinking, exchange a look, and break into embarrassed grins.

"Why didn't you say 'no'?" Jean asks.

Nino nudges him with his elbow. "Why didn't _you_?"

Jean traces the rim of his empty glass with a finger. "You look out for me, so I know I'll be fine," he says, a soft fondness in his voice. He nudges him back. "Your turn now."

Nino casts his eyes up to the ceiling. "Drinking together means spending time with you," he says. "During, and after."

Jean's expression is sweet and dusted with pink. "Let's go to the kitchen. Lotta might need help cooking."

"Not from you," Nino says, quirking his lips upward.

Their hands brush together as they stand.


	8. we were getting by

"So you're telling me," Jean says, tapping cigarette ash into a ceramic tray, "you never needed glasses?"

"Nope," Nino says. "It was just to look younger."

"Hmm."

"But it worked, didn't it?" Nino says, just as a nearby booth of fellow bar-goers erupts in laughter. "Hey, they think it's funny, so don't give me that look."

Jean's lip quirks upward. He crumples the cigarette, leaving it on the tray. "I guess it worked. But that was only part of it. You just don't look your age."

"All the alcohol I drink keeps me young."

"Really."

"Absolutely. You, too. You haven't changed much since high school." Nino leans forward, sly smile matching Jean's. "And what do we both have in common? Drinking."

Jean sips his beer. "You're too smart for your own good, Nino."

"Right?"

"Why did you bring them, though?" Jean motions to the glasses, folded on the table. "You don't need them..."

Nino leans lazily back, smirking. "You want 'em?"

Jean takes a long drink, looking at the wall to his right.

"Don't be shy, Jean."

"I'm not shy," Jean mutters to the rim of his glass.

"Mmm." His eyes are bright with amusement.

Jean takes another long drink.

"They're useful for when I ride my bike," Nino says. "Helps keep stuff out of my eyes. Sorry to tell you I'm keeping them."

Jean puts his glass down, the last drops gathered at the bottom. "I'm glad," he says.

"Oh?"

"It would be weird seeing you without them," Jean says, and takes Nino's glasses. "You've worn glasses ever since I met you. They're good on you." He gently unfolds them and puts them on, tips of his ears warm. "How are they on me?"

Nino's cheeks are pink, and not from the alcohol. He wears his heart on his face. "Even better."

Jean smiles. "The girls from high school don't know what they're missing." Jean removes the glasses, folding them back and placing them on the table.

"They don't," Nino agrees. "They'd be jealous of me if they saw you now."

Jean frowns. "I don't-" His eyes widen. "Wait, you're complimenting _me_."

"Yes."

"I meant _you_. You're the one they missed out on. Or- well." He runs a hand through his hair, suddenly flustered. "You always turned them down, and I know why now, but my point is-"

Nino cuts him off with a quiet, slightly embarrassed laugh. "I got it, don't worry about it. Thanks." He crosses his arms on the table. "I never understood why you weren't more popular."

"Because I was quiet, and not the cool type like you."

Nino laughs softly. "'Cool'?"

"Yes, like mysterious and aloof. Someone who had more going on than they let on." He smiles. "But that part was right."

"Was it ever."

They look at each other, both of them thinking they'd never tire of it.

"Fifteen years," Jean says. "Time flies."

"Now more than ever. We'll be wrinkly before we know it."

"Is that how you see us in fifteen years?"

Nino smirks. "Maybe not fifteen. At least, I hope we're not wrinkled by then."

"So you'll be there with me," Jean says, and it's not a question.

"If you'll let me."

"I don't know what life without you would be like," Jean says, resting his cheek on his palm, "and I don't think I ever want to find out."

"Then you won't," Nino says, a vow of the modern age.

Jean smiles.

 


	9. frosting

Lotta presses her hands to the display window, eyes bright. "They're too pretty to eat!"

Two dozen varieties of cupcakes are on display, coming in all colors of the rainbow, boasting intricate frosting designs and delicious flavors.

"I kind of want to try them all," she continues.

"Eventually, but not all today," Jean says.

"One can dream," Nino lightly says under his breath, and Jean nudges him.

"Well, yes, obviously not all today. Can you imagine eating all of these in one sitting? What a terrible stomachache that'd be." She points to a cupcake and smiles up at the employee behind the counter. "I'd like the vanilla-blueberry, please." She turns to Jean and Nino. "And you guys?"

"Strawberry," Jean says, at the same time that Nino replies, "Double chocolate."

Lotta affectionately rolls her eyes. "You're both so predictable. Come on, try something different! Or I'm picking for you."

"But strawberry's my favorite."

"You've had a lot of strawberry cupcakes before, Jean! But have you ever had..." Lotta leans in closer to the display. "Earl gray lavender cupcakes?"

"No-"

"And Nino, have you ever had a coffee cupcake?"

"Can't say I have."

She beams. "Then today, that changes." She turns to the employee and orders these new cupcakes.

"I hope you're paying, at least," Jean grumbles.

"Of course! Anything to get you two to eat something else sweet for a change."

They step outside with their new purchases. Lotta opens her box and swipes creamy blue frosting off her cupcake. "So yummy!"

Jean opens his own cupcake box, eyeing the pastry with a bit of mistrust. "I'm not even that much of a tea person."

Nino offers his. "Trade me?"

Jean smiles, and they exchange cupcakes.

Nino takes a careful bite of his. "Huh. Not bad."

"See?" Lotta says.

"Mine's good too," Jean chimes in. "It actually tastes like coffee, but it's not bitter. I think it might have chocolate."

"Seriously?!" Nino says.

"Yeah, here," Jean says, holding out the cupcake so Nino can try it. But as they're walking, and as Jean is shorter, Nino just ends up getting frosting on the side of his mouth.

Lotta giggles.

"Sorry," Jean says. He pauses. "I don't have a napkin..."

Nino laughs. "That's fine. I can just-"

Jean cups Nino's face, and with his thumb, gets the frosting off Nino's face. "There," Jean says, licking the frosting from his thumb a little smugly.

"I still didn't get to eat it," Nino replies, leaning in for a bite of the cupcake, not breaking eye contact with Jean.

Lotta glances away, feeling like she's intruding on something.

"You're right, that has a little cocoa powder in it," Nino says.

"We can trade back, if you like."

"No, it's okay. Lotta's right, I should eat something new. Tea and lavender are really good together, turns out."

"Don't you go abandoning chocolate like that."

"I could never."

Lotta hides a smile as she speeds up, walking in front of them to give them their space.

 


	10. me by your side

Nino isn't thinking about anything in particular as he goes inside the bar, the din of the city dwindling down replaced by the tinkling of glass, the pouring of drinks, the overlapping murmurs of dozens of conversations. Though he does feel content. Light, almost. He takes a seat at the counter, returning the polite smile the bartender offers him. Nino orders, and while the bartender is away, he glances at his phone. He's early, he knows. He doesn't mind it though; prefers it, if anything. It means watching Jean walk in. In the few seconds it takes Jean to walk from the door to the counter, hair fluttering in the sudden air conditioning, he doesn't take his eyes off Nino and his easy smile doesn't falter.

_I have it bad_ , Nino thinks, putting his phone away as his beer is placed in front of him. The thought doesn't faze him. He's long acknowledged the depth of his love for Jean. It seems like fate he'd end up feeling this way.

So maybe he'll tell him today.

But he's not sure. While keeping the truth buried so deep became natural, with the upheaval of their relationship, secrets tumbling out, he's itched to dig up the last remaining one and present it looking Jean in the eye. But the different ways that could play out maintain the current reality. For all the time he's been friends with Jean, as intricately as he knows him, he cannot predict what Jean would do. At the very least, Nino's sure Jean doesn't reciprocate. And that's alright. It's not like he ever expected otherwise. But would Jean be willing to give them a try? Or would Nino be rejected?

_That's likelier_ , he thinks, sipping his beer. Even if that should happen, would Jean be uncomfortable and their friendship made awkward? Broken?

He takes a long drink. Maybe the alcohol will cure him of indecision, and he'll just live with whatever happens. As long as he can be by Jean's side, he's happy.

The door opens. Out of habit, he turns to see if it's Jean.

It is.

And he's leading a woman in as they chat amicably. Before Nino can process this and decide what he thinks, Jean catches his eye and points at him to the woman. They walk toward him.

"Hey, Nino," Jean says with a smile, sitting down next to him.

Nino nods in silent greeting, trying not to look too much at the woman.

Jean turns to her. "You really don't have to buy me a drink. Helping you was no big deal."

"It's the least I can do, Jean!"

Nino purses his lips.

"Really, you don't know how thankful I am," she says. "Everyone is so busy and unapproachable in the subways, so you really saved me back there. I owe you one drink." She leans against the counter, beaming. "Order up, or I'll order for you."

Jean smiles again. "Well, alright." He asks for the house lager, and the woman calls out for it in her light, clear voice.

Nino's face must have settled for confusion, as Jean makes a motion with his hands that says _Hold on and I'll explain._

Jean gets his drink and thanks the stranger as she pays.

"One last thing," she says, putting her hand on his elbow. "Could I have your number?"

Nino's fingers are tight around his glass.

"You know," she adds quickly, "in case I have another question for getting around Badon. It's a big district. The city, too."

Jean's eyes go wide briefly. "Okay," he says, and they swap phones, inputting their info. "It is overwhelming at first, but you'll get used to it quickly. Don't worry." They trade phones again. "It was nice meeting you, Anna."

"You too, Jean," she says. She smiles politely at Nino and then leaves.

Jean wiggles his tie loose. "I wasn't late, was I?"

"No," Nino says.

Jean looks at him. "Your jaw's clenched," he says, frowning. "You okay?"

Nino's hand shoots up. It _is_ tight. "I'm fine," he says, muscles slackening.

Jean takes a drink. "So you're wondering what that was about."

Nino chuckles, though it sounds dry.

"You know I have to take the subway here. She was there, looking lost. I asked if she needed help and she did." He removes his jacket, folding it neatly on the empty seat beside him. "She just moved to Badon."

"Hm," Nino says, for lack of anything else to say to acknowledge he was paying attention.

"She wanted to go to the restaurant across the street. So I offered to show her the way, since my own destination was right in front." He grabs his glass. "I helped someone and got a free drink out of it. Not bad, huh?"

_And her number,_ Nino thinks, something bitter in the bottom of his stomach. "Not bad."

As if Jean read his mind, he says, "Oh, her number, too." He pauses in thought. "Do you think she was flirting?"

Nino can't help the little laugh that escapes him. "Yes, Jean."

"You're the one who's always had women after him, not me," Jean says, sulking. "I don't know these things."

"Will you text her?" Nino asks, his tongue ahead of his better sense.

"No."

"Huh," Nino says, though he did not intend to do so out loud.

"I mean, she was nice. Cute, too. But... I dunno." He shrugs. "I don't mind if she genuinely has a question for me about Badon. I'd answer that. Anything romantic I'd turn down."

Nino forces himself to keep his face neutral, pushing back a relieved smile. "I see."

"I'm hungry," Jean announces. He nudges Nino. "You should be like her and buy me food."

Nino laughs, sincerely now. "Of course," he says.


	11. you by my side

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is also in the same fic-verse as the last chapter/oneshot

The bar is distorted amber through the curved glass of Jean's beer. People stretch and then immediately thin in unrealistic proportions, all in different shades of yellow.

"Jean?" comes a voice.

He picks his head up, true colors returning to the world, or as true as they can be under the low incandescent lights. Nino's hair and eyes aren't that dark. Jean knows this is as certainly as he knows sugar is sweet. Nino's smile, though, is as true as ever.

"Neither of us is particularly talkative," Nino says, "but you're unusually quiet today. Something up?"

Time has been very kind to Nino; he doesn't look his age. And this lighting further blurs the few faint lines beginning to etch his face.

"You look the same," Jean says.

"'The same?'" Nino repeats, confused. "The same as what or who?"

"The same as yourself fifteen years ago."

Nino chuckles. "Thanks, I guess. You haven't changed either."

"Yeah," Jean mumbles before taking a drink. That's seemed to be a theme in their lives: things are different, but they don't really change. Things outside their control, anyway. But things they _can_...

Fifteen years they've been by each other. Fifteen years of growing and learning about their own selves and the other. Fifteen years of someone to trust in; of an unwavering, steady presence. The shadow to his light, unable to exist without the other.

It was gradual, the way the clear water shimmering at the surface of the ocean darkens with each meter swam. Though rather than being met with cold at the depths, Jean found warmth and calmness. Uncertainty and restlessness melted like ice, and a watery veil lifted from his eyes. He could see, and saw that what he wanted was more than just Nino's friendship.

_I should tell him_ , Jean thinks, not for the first time. Every time, a last moment's twinge of apprehension has kept him from doing so. It could take only one sentence to hurt everything they had. _Or better it_ , part of him thinks. His eyes fall to Nino's left hand, relaxed on the table. The gaps between his fingers would fit Jean's nicely.

Jean makes a frustrated noise at the back of his throat and rests his forehead on his palms, willing the blush away.

"Jean," Nino says, and his name low on Nino's lips only makes the rush of blood to his face worse, "if you're not feeling well we can just call it a day. I'm free tomorrow, too."

With one hand, he waves away Nino's worry. "I'm fine."

"It doesn't seem that way to me."

Jean slowly picks his head up. "I-" he starts.

"See, you're kind of red," Nino says.

He bites his tongue. "I... need to make a call," he mutters. "I'll be right back."

He gets up from the counter and walks to the door, almost bumping into a woman walking in from his hurry to step outside. The evening air is fresh on his skin, the cool colors of the approaching night contrasted with the yellows from the bar. He digs up his phone and waits for his heartbeat to settle before calling Lotta.

"Hello?" she answers.

"Lotta," he says, "there's something I need to tell you."

"What is it?" she asks, worry in her voice.

He doesn't even hesitate before saying, "I'm in love with Nino."

"Oh," she says, sounding relieved. "You made me think something bad had happened! Gosh, Jean." She giggles quietly. "Thanks for telling me, but shouldn't it be Nino who hears this?"

"You don't seem very surprised..."

"I'm not. I think I realized you liked him before you did."

He sets his mouth into a thin line. "Is it obvious?"

"It was to me. But I'm your sister; I know you."

Jean leans against the brick wall. "I've been wanting to tell him. I can never find the chance, though. I end up overthinking."

Lotta hums in thought. "I really doubt Nino would take it badly. It's _Nino_. He cares for you a lot. Wait, were you wanting to tell him now? Aren't you both out drinking?"

"Yes and yes."

"Jean! Don't open up your heart to him when you're drunk!"

"I'm not," he insists. He really isn't. He didn't want to be when he told Nino, although the temptation to douse out his anxieties with alcohol nagged at him often.

"Sure," she says, not very convinced. "Anyway. A bar is not romantic at all! Do it at a park or something. I know you both drink often so it's comfortable there, but you can do better than that, Jean. And what if he thinks you're just saying things because you're drunk?"

"That was always a fallback," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck.

She sighs heavily. "Don't tell him in a bar. Leave now and go on a walk and then casually mention it like the level-headed impassive guy you are. Just not in a _bar_."

He turns his head up. The light pollution in Badon hides the stars so the sky is an empty, cloudless indigo. They may not be visible, but the stars are there. They always are.

"Jean? Are you there?"

"Yeah," he says, "I was just thinking." He straightens. "You're right. I'll ask to go and as we walk home I'll tell him."

"Good luck!"

He smiles. "I wish it was as easy as telling you was. I'll see you later."

"Okay, bye!"

He hangs up and goes inside the murmuring bar again, half-expecting Nino to turn around like he always does when he's waiting for Jean to arrive.

He doesn't. He's talking to someone.

_I_ _'ve seen_ _her_ _before_ _,_ Jean thinks, stopping. It's the woman that walked in as he went out. The bartender gives her a drink, which she then hands to Nino with a smile. She flicks her hair over her shoulder, standing very close to him.

Nino has never lacked for women's attention; this Jean knows quite well. Yet his organs feel like they've been scooped out, leaving him hollow, uncomfortable in his own skin. His legs don't seem to be attached to him, under his control; they slowly amble on their own while his mind tries to subdue his fretting.

He tries to be inconspicuous, to not disturb their conversation, but Nino notices him quickly, eyes crinkled from his smile.

"That your friend?" the woman asks as Jean sits.

"Yes," Nino replies, expression neutralizing to polite as he turns to her.

She quirks a smile at him, apparently not realizing he nearly bumped into her a bit ago. "I'll leave you two be, then. Thanks for chatting with me and letting me buy you a drink." She winks at him, and she's off, heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

Jean breathes out, muscles relaxing. Nino's attention is back to him.

"Are you sure you're alright?" he asks, brow creased.

Jean nods.

"If you say so," Nino says, and slides the drink the woman bought him over to him. "She was nice enough to buy me the most expensive whiskey they have. You can have it."

Jean's eyebrows go up. "Oh," he says. He feels a smile coming. "Thanks."

"Sure thing."

_I don't think I can tell him today_ _,_ Jean thinks, sipping the drink as it slides like liquid fire down his throat. _But I don't mind this, either._


	12. watching

The empty plates clack against each other as Lotta stacks them, the cutlery on the very top plate clinking together when she moves.

"Your cooking is great as always," Nino says, gathering the glasses.

Lotta beams, stack of plates in her arms. "I'm happy you like it!" She walks carefully to the kitchen and sets them down on the sink.

He follows her. "If you opened a restaurant or bakery, I'd never leave."

She giggles.

"Are you sure it's your turn to help with the dishes?" Jean asks from the dining room.

"Yeah. Well. Probably."

Jean frowns. "We invited you over. I don't want you to-"

"It's fine," Nino says, smiling. "Go have your smoke."

"I hadn't even said yet that I was gonna do that..."

"I can tell."

Jean looks to Lotta, as if she will convince Nino otherwise. She only offers a polite smile. It's actually Jean's turn, but she'd rather not get in the way.

"Well, okay," Jean says. He pats his pockets for his cigarette case and lighter. "Where-"

"In your jacket on the sofa!" Lotta answers, turning on the tap. Nino chuckles.

"Thanks. I'll be outside."

As she starts to scrub the dishes, she hears the balcony door slide open and then shut.

"I'll dry and sort them," Nino says, rolling up his sleeves to the elbows.

They move wordlessly and efficiently. _He's as scatterbrained as Jean, but I think he knows where things go better than Jean does_ , she thinks, smiling to herself. Once she'd have been too shy to ask him to help. They were long past that. Their apartment was more like home to Nino than his own, so it was normal that he'd offer his hand at chores. He could move in with them and she wouldn't notice immediately; that was how often he was over, how comfortable the three of them were together.

She hands Nino the last dish. _Although I think I fit in a little differently._ They're done now. "Thank you," she tells him, like always.

"You're welcome."

She eyes the kitchen. "I'm still in the mood for something light. Oh! I'll make some tea. I got some from the k- our grandfather." She slips up sometimes, still trying to fully realize the king of her nation is her family. "Do you want some, too?"

He's made his way to the living room. He sits down with a sigh. "I'm full, so I'll have to pass on that. I meant what I said about you opening up a restaurant."

She gets a tea bag from the box in the cupboards. "I know you did," she says. She fills the tea kettle with water. "I don't know that I could do it, though." With a click, the stove comes on, slowly but surely heating the water. "Who'd manage the building? Don't say Jean; you know he'd be terrible on his own."

Nino laughs.

_That's why I need to get married_ , she thinks. When she goes to university, her workload will pile up. She can count on Jean for little things, but she'll need an equal in the future. _Although..._

She glances up at Nino. His face is turned toward the glass door, and though she cannot see his eyes, she knows what – rather, who – he's focused on. _You're kind of obvious, Nino,_ she thinks with a smile.

The tea kettle whistles; she turns off the heat and pours the water over the bag in her cup, the tea brewing. When it's the right color, she tosses the wet bag to the trash, and takes her drink over to the living room. Nino still hasn't noticed her, despite her sitting directly in front of him.

_Maybe I'm not the one who needs to get married_ _._ How many years has he looked at Jean like that, with softened eyes and a wistful expression? And does Jean have any idea? _Jean's_ _really_ _observant_ _,_ she thinks, _and also really oblivious_. She can't make a guess as to whether Jean knows; it could go either way and she wouldn't be surprised.

"Nino," she says.

Blinking quickly, he faces her.

"Do you remember when I asked you to marry me when I was little?"

"Yes, and I said I couldn't."

"Right. Um... did you say that because of what your role in our lives was, or because of our age difference?"

He crosses his legs. "Both."

Her words are half-muffled by her lips at the rim of her mug. "Then would you marry Jean?"

But he hears her, if the red tinge to his ears is any indication. "What?" he asks weakly.

She sets her eyes to Jean. The smoke from his cigarette blends in with the fat summer clouds on the sky. She turns back to Nino. "From the way you look at him," she says, a little embarrassed, "I thought you might want to."

Nino sighs heavily and leans forward, head down. "It's obvious?"

She sips her tea as an answer.

Still facing down, Nino laughs dryly.

"I like how you look at him," Lotta says. "I can tell a lot just from watching you watch him. It's sweet!"

He picks himself back up with another sigh. "So he knows?"

"I don't know. You know Jean picks up on things pretty easily, but this might be past his skills."

Nino's gaze wanders to Jean. There seems to be a question in his mind, but he doesn't speak it.

So Lotta says, "If you married, you could help me manage the building. You already know a lot about this place that training you would be really quick. And you're over so often the guards know to let you in. You know where we keep our sponges and dishwasher! It would be exactly like now, except you'd finally live here." She beams. "And you would both have matching rings."

Nino briefly eyes his left hand. Then he looks at her, smiling thinly. "We're really getting ahead of ourselves here. I don't know if he's interested in me to begin with. I can't just ask, either."

"Why not?"

"Because if he's not, then we both have to pretend that I'm not in love with him. I don't want to risk our friendship."

"So you'll just live keeping your feelings secret forever?" Lotta asks. "That's too depressing, Nino! I don't even think Jean would be the type to let it bother him."

"I don't want to risk it," Nino says again, but it sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

"You're okay with this?"

"As long as you two allow me in your life," he says, "I'm happy."

Lotta hides her sad smile behind her tea.


	13. a moment of drunkenness

The movie's title page has remained on the television screen long enough that Nino has already figured out where the annoyingly cheery music loops. The piano repeats the same bar four times, sprinkles out some notes, plays an altered version on the bar from earlier, holds out a chord – then a tiny pause, and it all begins anew. That beat of silence should have been the hint the music was about to be replayed, but all the rum he's drunk has dulled his mind some.

Not as badly as Jean, though.

"No more drinking games," Jean groans, legs curled up to his chest. He rests his forehead on his knees. "Ever."

"You say that every time," Nino says.

"I mean it this time."

He smiles. "You say that, too."

Jean turns his head so his cheek touches his knees. Behind his hair, an eye peeks at Nino. "Do I really?"

_I should brush back his hair_ , he thinks, because at this degree of insobriety he cannot repress the dangerous sentimentality he's learned to control, to ignore. While his thoughts run free, he still has some physical restraint; his hand does not move. "Mm-hmm."

"Then next time," Jean says, "let's pick a good movie."

"That defeats the purpose of taking a shot every time we rolled our eyes."

"Yeah."

"What would we take shots to?"

"Nothing. I wanna watch a movie with you and not feel like I'm dying at the end."

Nino's heart, as weak as it is for Jean, falters. "Sure."

His pulse has no chance to recover. The sofa dips as Jean closes the gap between them, his knees by Nino's right thigh, and he stretches to meet Nino's eyes.

"You don't look drunk," Jean says, words sweetened by rum. Like a tide of alcohol, they rush over Nino, and he is suddenly aware of everything at once: his hands, limp by his sides, what should he even do with them; where does he let his eyes rest; his heart is thumping wildly, thinning out the skin that barely keeps it in place so it's certainly going to fall out at any moment. And the heat, the heat spreading inside him the way plains catch on fire – one long and dry blade of grass burns on to the next, to the next, to the next, until everything is aflame.

"I know my face gets red," Jean continues, somehow unaware of the mess Nino is, thank God, "and my voice gets whiny. But you don't – nothing. You don't look drunk. I can never tell if you are until you pass out, and that... almost never happens." He squints at him. "Are you drunk? Or are you pretending?"

It takes Nino a few seconds to work his tongue (was it always this heavy?) and speak. "Why would I pretend?"

Jean blinks. Sighs. "So I don't feel lonely." He lays his head on Nino's shoulder. "It's something you'd do," he murmurs. "Probably."

_I am on fire_ _,_ _why are you resting on me?_ half of Nino wants to say, as the other half holds back a plea for Jean to never get up again.

"Is that what you think?" he says instead.

He feels Jean nod.

"I've never pretended to be drunk." He's pretended many other things. Just not that.

"So you are right now?"

"A bit." Nino is tipsy enough he thinks stupid things, but not so tipsy he will forget them tomorrow. All Jean will have to remember this by is a headache.

The music continues to loop. Nino loses track of the number of playthroughs, but his breathing is calm now, the weight of Jean's head against him familiar. The remote is too far, and he dares not move lest Jean stir, so he decides the music will be a lullaby tonight. He closes his eyes.


	14. i shall die for someone else

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place in ep 11 before That Scene

The dry heat of Furawau is dizzying. Despite his loose, light-colored clothing, Nino sweats, the cotton fabric clinging uncomfortably to him. It's so hot the air shimmers, twisting reality itself, casting images that are not truly there. This, mixed with the heavy perfume from so many kinds of flowers, spins Nino's head.

_T_ _his is_ _probably_ _why I wasn't allowed here_ , he muses. _Something in this district is going to kill me._ He quickly squints up at the sun shining overhead. _I bet_ _it'll be_ _the damn sun._

He hides in the cool shadow of a tall building. From a safe distance, he keeps an eye on Jean and on the _other_ people tailing him. Nino smiles sardonically as he dusts his sleeve free of sand. _I would laugh at their incompetency if they weren't out to kill him_ _,_ he thinks _._ At least, incompetent compared to him. Jean hasn't noticed there are two assassins stalking after him, and Nino isn't sure whether to be thankful or annoyed.

Jean and his ACCA escorts are on the move. The assassins follow, and so does Nino. How not one citizen has raised an eyebrow at the two foreigners in their heavy, black clothing is another frustrating mystery, although there is an upside to it. _If the police don't get involved_ , Nino thinks, blending into the daytime crowds, _then I can personally deal with the bastards._ He tugs his headwrap lower to hide his hair. He won't kill them as that would be too messy, literally and bureaucratically. But he'd like to. And he'll come close to it.

His orders are to watch over Jean and to make sure no harm comes to him. But Abend always hides deeper orders beneath his words. Nino doesn't acknowledge the subtle instructions to his boss's face, and his boss does not acknowledge he asks for more. It is a foolish game, but Nino plays it anyway. And behind what Abend had spoken was the ultimate order.

_If it comes down to it_ , Abend's steely eyes had said, _sacrifice yourself for Jean_ _._

Surveillance is the duty Nino willingly took upon himself so long ago. While the job itself is for the royal family, Nino had chosen this for his dad's sake. Yet along the way-

A thin cloud drifts in front of the sun, providing brief shade, and Jean lowers the hand that had shielded his eyes. He turns to the Furawau Chief, mouth moving in speech Nino cannot hear.

Nino smiles. _Yet along the way, I found something else important._

He doesn't need to be told, directly or not, to give his life for Jean. He would do it in a heartbeat. His life has belonged to the Dowa family since boyhood. It makes sense his death would, too. But duty is not the only reason for this mindset.

"Is this what it was like for you, Abend?" he mutters to himself, quietly enough to be mistaken for the rustle of flowers. Nino's situation is too much like what his boss's once was for his comfort. _Nothing changes, does it?_ He swivels around a corner. _People fall in love with those they shouldn't._ _T_ _hen they either die with the secret or live with re_ _gret_ _._ _Abend is the latter. Which will I be?_

He pictures himself back in Badon, walking beside Jean. Same old. They don't talk about anything in particular, and yet he pays close attention. Same old. He can't keep his eyes off Jean, studying his face as if he'll never get to see him again. Same old. His chest alternates between being full of butterflies and a hundred things to say, to hollow with rue knowing he can never speak them. Same old, same old.

Then he tries to see himself dying, and there's only one thought that weighs him down. _I would never see Jean again._ He's not afraid of the pain of death or whatever follows after. Only of losing his place by Jean. Fifteen years and he's greedy for more. But if it's him instead of Jean, he'll clutch that time they've spent together, have it be his last thought, and go in peace.

A drop of sweat trickles down Nino's back. _I'll go in peace._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the title comes from this [ anime op's](https://vimeo.com/269658061) lyrics. the op is the only thing about it that i liked


	15. the sin of addiction

_Tap-tap-tap_ Jean's foot goes, following a steady, agitated rhythm he can't stop. The metronome of his heart beats to the same frenzied speed, sending pulses that spread throughout his whole body. Absentmindedly, he rubs thumb and forefinger together, has been for so long the pads of his fingers are warm and raw.

He's tried to focus on anything but his restlessness to no avail. He doesn't know what's happening in the movie playing on the distant screen, nor what Lotta is talking about, nor what area of Dowa they're currently flying over. Everything but the static inside his head swirls together, muffled-

A hand on his arm startles him.

"Jean, I said are you okay?" Lotta asks, eyebrows drawn together.

He lets out a quiet sigh and sinks against the seat. "Honestly, I feel like I'm losing my mind a bit."

She smiles sympathetically. "We're almost home. You've made it a week; you can make it another hour or so."

He makes a noncommittal noise.

He keeps his feet at rest for a few minutes before muttering, "I still can't understand why the king wouldn't let his own grandson bring-"

Lotta yelps, silencing him by talking loudly over him. "Wow, Dowa sure was a lovely district to visit! I'd love to come back!" She beams at the passenger besides her, but as she is reading a book, she doesn't notice.

"I don't think she heard my slip-up," Jean says, leaning in to Lotta's ear, "or that she cares."

"What if she had?" she whispers back. "Be more careful!"

"Sorry."

For the rest of the flight, he manages to sit still and focus somewhat on the movie, even if it's nearly over and he has to guess the plot so far. Each minute passed up here brings him closer to home, so he waits.

Then the pilot announces they'll be landing soon, and the ground comes closer into view until they're skidding along the runway, Badon's airport and Badon's trees and Badon's air and _Badon_ everywhere around them. Jean's insides churn and not only due to the landing. The passengers neatly file out, Jean privately urging them to hurry because he has somewhere to be. With their carry-ons on hand, they walk briskly – with Lotta's smaller steps struggling to keep up to Jean's large strides – to baggage claim. The carousel of suitcases goes around and around, everyone's luggage looking the same.

"Which ones are ours, again?" Jean asks, eyes flitting about, hoping to recognize them.

"I tied red ribbons around them. Don't worry, I'll know them when I see them. Oh, there they are!"

They rush over to get them and just as quickly leave for their exit gate. The airport's carpets give way to tile, automatic glass doors, and eager-eyed people waiting for those they know on the flight. Upon realizing Jean and Lotta are not who they're looking for, they glance away. Except for one pair of eyes, crinkled by a smile.

"Nino!" Lotta says, though Jean is the one who walks up to him first.

Nino pats Lotta's head, and his eyes slowly travel up to meet Jean's. The deep affection in them nearly drown him. "Welcome home."

And he chooses to drown, wrapping his arms around Nino, letting himself be embraced in return, letting himself breathe in his scent, finally, in a kiss that makes up for seven days' absence. His anxiety dissipates like fog before the sun. Home in a person.

"I missed you," he mumbles between a pause for breath.

Nino disentangles himself, one hand cupping Jean's face. "I missed you, too."

"He got more miserable by the day," Lotta says. "I thought it was nicotine withdrawal at first."

"Part of it probably was," Jean admits. But mostly, it was having to go a week without Nino. "I was telling Lotta that I don't know why you couldn't come."

"I'm not related to the king. I would have been out of place at his birthday celebration."

Jean frowns. "You're part of my and Lotta's family. You worked for the royal family; you lived in the palace at one point. You should have been there."

"But they said you could come next time!" Lotta chirps. "Jean's unsubtle moping worked."

Nino laughs. "Good work."

"Now they just need to let me smoke."

"I'm happy to know I'm prioritized over cigarettes."

Jean smirks.

Nino takes their bags. "Let's go home now. I got takeout, since I figured you two would be too tired to go out and eat."

"Please tell me there's some soft bread as a side in whatever you got," Jean says as they begin to walk.

"And a strawberry cake for dessert."

Jean pecks Nino's cheek. _God, I missed him._

 


	16. a city with you in it

The skyscraper aligns perfectly with the grid lines on Nino's camera, its sides just brushing two vertical lines, its windows fitting snugly between horizontal ones. The sun, shining on the top right of the frame, sends diamonds tumbling down its glass facade. He presses the shutter button, capturing the moment. It's not an uncommon sight at all in a city, yet Nino finds every glittering skyscraper striking.

He sweeps over to the right, catching the sky on his whole screen. There are no clouds, and the entire screen being blue is almost disorienting, as if he's looking at a sun-lit lake instead. A speck appears from the bottom corner: a bird, too far to make out its type, passing by. And then, another, following a respectful distance behind. Smiling a little, Nino takes the shot.

He tilts the camera back down. All sorts of people go past at their own paces, with their own hopes and worries, leading lives unlikely to cross with his own. But as he photographs the street, busy with cars and pedestrians, they have that fleeting moment of connection.

Someone taps him on the shoulder, and he turns, Badon blurry on the screen, before settling on the one thing brighter than the sun.

"Taking pictures while you wait?" Jean asks, smiling.

_Click_ , and that smile is forever saved.

"You caught me," Nino says, moving the camera away from his face.

They begin walking to the subway station, talking still.

"I would have thought you have enough pictures of the city," Jean says.

"More don't hurt. It's a nice subject to photograph. While its structure stays the same, the people don't, nor the weather, nor mood or lighting. I could take a picture of the same spot every day for a week, and each would have its own charm."

"Sounds like it's your favorite thing to photograph."

Nino idly thumbs the camera strap around his neck. "It's not."

"Huh. Then what is?"

They descend the cool steps leading underground, the rushing of the subway loud in their ears.

"It isn't crowded today," Nino comments once the subway's gone.

"Because it's Sunday morning." Jean sits on a bench. "And you didn't answer my question."

"Oh, I didn't?" Nino says, leaning against the wall, fiddling with his camera. "What a shame. It's too late now."

"Nino, come on," Jean laughs.

"I'll let you guess again." He takes his camera and purposefully takes longer than usual in framing his shot of Jean, a spot of color, against the metal subway station.

Jean thinks about it. "Okay... is it whatever happens to be in front of you at the moment?"

"So close." _Click._ "And yet so far."

Jean pouts. "Why can't you just tell me directly? Does it embarrass you? Is it yourself or something?"

"You know me, taking self-portraits any chance I get."

"Am I going to die never knowing this simple thing about you?"

"Fine, fine. I'll tell you." Nino walks in front of Jean, eyeing the empty platform ahead, the approaching rumble of the subway traveling from his feet up his spine.

Then he turns to Jean and says one word, drowned out by the whooshing subway, but its shape is distinct, easy to read. In the pale white lights overhead, Jean's ears look redder than they really are.

The subway comes to a stop, a few people stepping out.

"You coming?" Nino says over his shoulder.

"Oh. Yeah." Jean stands and follows.


	17. friendly fire

_Jean's a little late_ , Nino thinks, eyeing the time on his phone. He puts it back in his pocket, catching the silent question in the waitress' eyes as he looks back up. He shakes his head, politely saying "Not yet," and she nods in understanding, walking away before she'd gotten any closer.

Waiting isn't so bad. It gives him a chance to get lost in thought, to really think things over: the lies and the truths and that which lays in between. He sips his water, ice clinking against the glass. It's cold and hurts his teeth yet tastes like nothing. But it's fine. The alcohol can wait until he has company. Were he to drink now, alone, the tangled strings in his mind would unravel out loud. Better to be bored and sober.

Out of habit, Nino places his hand where his camera would usually rest on his lap, but he meets only air. He didn't bring it; he doesn't when it's just him and Jean out for food. To do so would breach a self-imposed violation. There's Nino, the one Jean doesn't know, whose fate was entwined with Jean's since birth, who uses shadows and smiles to hide and to remember and to report. And then there's _Nino_ , the one who was only meant to be a role and became far more real than he ever imagined, maybe more real than whoever he really was behind all the masks. It is that Nino who would be appalled if any duty-mandated photographs were taken today. For all the rules he has to adhere to, the script he's been given to play, it's these days that belong to him and him only. A semblance of normalcy.

He rests his cheek on his hand.  _If only it were really like that_ _._ His eyes drift to the window on his left. Badon's even nicer at night, he thinks. The darkness like a veil is kept away by the lights hanging on building walls, posted like guards every so often along the streets. The people continue their lives at a peaceful pace.

A light tapping shifts Nino's attention. One of the restaurant's own outdoor lights is right by the window, and a moth is trying to catch it. It persistently flies to it, but it is kept away by its opaque covering and bounces off. The moth repeats itself, immediately forgetting it couldn't reach the light, only knowing it seeks it. Flying and failing yet trying. If the light was not covered, it likely would have died by now. If the light were fire, it definitely would have, after one futile attempt. What it wants most would kill it. Perhaps it's best it cannot have it.

But perhaps death wouldn't be so bad, because, at least for a moment, it _would_ have the light. What better final memory could there be?

The moth buzzes off the light and to the glass again. _I wonder if it hurts_ , Nino thinks, his fingers curling slightly on his cheek as if trying to grasp the emptiness echoing through him.

The unmistakable sound of approaching feet on wood make him turn his head. Jean slides into the chair in front of him, looking a little frazzled.

"Sorry I'm late, Nino," he says, shrugging off his jacket. "The subway broke down. I walked here as quickly as I could."

Nino smiles, folding his hands in front of him. "I see. It's okay."

And it is.

 


	18. strawberries taste best in the summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated t

The apartment sounds emptier without the air conditioner on. The reedy whir of the plugged-in fan does not properly replace the AC's steady hum, nor its cool.

"Hot," Jean mumbles, eyes sleepier than usual.

"Maybe if you weren't laying on top of me, you'd be cooler," Nino counters, watching the fan turn left, pause, turn right.

"No."

Nino laughs quietly. He brushes Jean's bangs back. Despite the fan and wearing shorts and no shirt, it _is_ hot, and Jean being on top of him isn't helping. But there's still something nice about lazing around together on a groggy summer afternoon.

"How long has it been since the AC broke?" Jean asks. Because his face is on its side, his mouth brushes Nino's skin as he speaks. It tickles.

Nino eyes the clock on the wall. "Fifteen minutes."

Jean groans, burying his face on Nino's bare chest.

"Hey, at least it wasn't your tenants' air conditioning that broke," Nino says. "Then you'd have to deal with a lot of annoyed, sweaty people."

Jean makes a noncommittal noise.

"And the repairmen said they'd be here within forty-five minutes."

Jean looks up at him, pouting. "Still too long a wait."

"A lot of ACs break around this time when everyone's using them."

Jean huffs. "I hate everyone." He pauses. "Well, not you or Lotta."

"I'm very moved."

Jean stretches forward to chastely kiss Nino. "I'm gonna get a snack," he says, getting up. "Want anything?"

"I'm good, thanks."

Nino hears the clinking and shuffling of containers in the refrigerator as Jean searches for something to eat. Something plastic crinkles. The fridge door quietly thuds to a close. The sound of a knife working.

The fan turns left, pauses, turns right.

Jean walks back. He holds a small bowl with strawberries, their stems cut off.

"Of course," Nino says, smiling.

Jean moves the low-lying living room table closer to the sofa, sets down the bowl, climbs back on top of Nino. Then he says, "Feed me."

Nino blinks. "Feed you?"

Jean nods, like this is quite important.

_It is, honestly,_ Nino thinks. He reaches for a strawberry. He holds it by the rounded part and offers it to Jean.

Without taking his eyes off Nino, Jean delicately nibbles it.

_God_ , Nino thinks, swallowing.

Jean eats the rest of the strawberry, Nino gently pushing the last bit of it in his mouth. Briefly, Jean's lips curl around his finger before taking the strawberry in with his tongue.

"You're doing this on purpose, aren't you," Nino says, in a tight voice. Not a question, but an accusation.

Jean's smile is mischievous.

Nino lets out a long, long exhale. "Another?" he asks, because God knows Jean has him wrapped around his little finger. But he doesn't mind.

"Please," Jean says, "but this time, hold it in your mouth."

Nino doesn't mind in the _slightest_.

He does as told, rounded end of the strawberry settled between his teeth. Jean leans in, eyes half-closed, and bite by tantalizing bite nears the end, until his mouth closes around Nino's to suck the strawberry out of him. Before they can make that a kiss, Jean pulls away. Nino is almost disappointed, but then Jean cranes his head down and lightly runs his tongue below the groove of Nino's neck. He shudders, and Jean seems to revel in it, because he looks back up with a smug smile.

"Some strawberry juice dribbled on you," he says.

Nino carefully threads his fingers on Jean's nape, returning Jean's smile. "You missed some."

"Hm? Where?"

"I'll show you," he murmurs, bringing Jean in for the kiss they'd missed.

The drowsiness of the summer afternoon is forgotten. All of their senses are at their peak, only for each other. Now the heat comes from every touch; a surge of it comes, along with a back-of-the-throat gasp, when Jean shifts to let Nino know he's hard, too. The hand that does not cradle Jean's head moves on its own, searching for Jean's shirt's hem, finding it, slithering beneath, and pressing down on the small of Jean's back to bring him if a breath closer. Not to be outdone, Jean, humming pleasure, slides his slender hand inside Nino's shorts, wiggling them loose, and just as Nino starts thinking they're probably going to fuck on the couch, they're interrupted by a buzz from the door.

They break apart as if they've each touched a hot stove.

"The repairmen?" Nino croaks.

Jean licks his lips. "Probably. I'll check."

"Yeah."

Jean gets off him again, and Nino has half a mind to pull him back in. He doesn't, watching Jean try to fix his clothes and hair before looking at the security camera. "It's the repairmen," Jean confirms.

"I'll go put on a shirt," Nino says, standing, fixing his own shorts.

"Unfortunately," Jean mutters, more to himself, but Nino still grins.

"You didn't finish your strawberries," Nino says. "So. Later?"

Jean's smile gets him, after all this time. "Later."


	19. through the good, through the bad

Jean's lips first touched the rim of a beer can two years before he could legally do so. He hadn't liked it much, handing it to Nino with a grimace. Nino had laughed, downed the can like it was nothing to Jean's speechless gaping, and that had been that. As far as Nino knew, Jean hadn't drunk again until Nino, whose birthday came after Jean's, had turned 'eighteen' (for the second time in his life). _I waited until we could both go to a bar_ , Jean had explained, dragging Nino inside one.

It had gone quite similarly to the first time he'd had alcohol. It was still as funny.

Stubborn as he was, Jean kept trying to make himself enjoy alcohol. _If you don't like it, you don't like it_ , Nino had said. _Don't force yourself._

But Jean succeeded. Partly, at least, because more than a glass was still enough to get him drunk. Nino probably should have felt bad, going to bars as some kind of weekly newfound routine with Jean, and seeing this lost prince he was sworn to protect lose all semblance of sobriety with but a drink while it took half a bottle for Nino to feel anything. He doesn't really feel bad, though. Pink-faced bluntly rambling Jean is so unlike his usual demeanor. His voice takes on a bit of a whine, and his tongue fumbles over every single thought unfiltered. Nino actually kind of _likes_ it. And when Jean starts being harsh on _him_ , he actually kind of likes it even more.

That's Nino's cue to get drunk, too. It's stupid, of course. Instead of drowning out his unnecessary feelings, it brings out the guilt and the sorrow and the dark, which Jean shouldn't know exists at all. Luckily, he's more plastered than Nino, with hardly a brain cell left to think about what it is Nino is so enigmatically mumbling.

Today's occasion is basically that. Jean is about to hit his head on the table any moment, and Nino thinks he's said – or slurred – _That's enough for you, I think_ , but Jean pouts and it feels like someone's squeezing Nino's heart, then Jean pours himself more beer.

"'Mfine," Jean mutters, spilling beer on the table.

"Clearly not," Nino replies, grabbing some napkins and dabbing at the mess.

"Axens 'appen."

A semi-drunk laugh bubbles out of Nino. "What'd you say?"

Jean hums noncommittally and swigs his drink.

"Jean, really," Nino says, trying to sound firm and serious, "don't have anymore."

"Why?"

"Because this isn't good for you and tomorrow you'll wake up being mad at me for not stopping you."

Jean lazily slams the table. "Nuh-uh."

"And if you drink any more," Nino continues, "you won't be able to walk home, not even leaning on me, and I'll have to carry you."

Jean's smile is slow and smug. "Good," he says, and Nino's probably pink now.

Nino swipes the mug from Jean, which takes Jean a moment to process. "I'll pay for us both," he says, and makes himself drink the last of Jean's beer.

Jean looks like he's about to protest, but he starts blinking deeply, and then he's putting his head down on the table, muttering things he himself likely doesn't know. With bated breath Nino waits for him to fall asleep. It doesn't take long.

Nino sharply exhales and calls for the tab. 

* * *

Nino's carried Jean home before.

It sends him into overdrive every time.

_I should not like this_ , he thinks, every time Jean is against his back, his arms hanging around Nino's neck, his sighs tickling the back of Nino's neck. One of these days he'll beat Jean to it and get drunk first. "Then you'd have to carry me," Nino mumbles into the night. He manages a quiet laugh. "No, you couldn't." So he's stuck in yet another duty, though much less regal.

Turns out Lotta is away. Better that way; the two of them are a sorry sight. Nino gently sets Jean down on a sofa, finds a blanket to drape over him, and sits on the adjacent sofa. He turns to look at Jean. He is a dim shadow, breathing evenly. Even when he can't see him right, Nino's heart flutters.

_You might be worse for my health than drinking_ , Nino thinks, with a small, sad smile. He leans against the back of the sofa, closing his eyes.

Something weakly grabs his knee. Nino jerks awake. The sky outside is barely lightening with the promise of morning, and he can see that it's Jean's hand on his knee. Nino blinks the dry sleep away from his eyes.

"What is it?" he says, voice gravelly.

And then he sees Jean's bangs are sticking to him with sweat, and that his skin is ashen. "Nino, I'm going to be sick."

Without another word, Nino scoops Jean up and briskly walks to the bathroom. He puts Jean down on the floor by the toilet as if he is made of glass. Jean braces the toilet, shuddering.

"Wait, your tie," Nino says, reaching around Jean to hold it in place just as Jean empties the watery contents of his stomach.

This is the first time Jean has been this nauseated by drinking. It's not pretty. But it doesn't matter. Nino is there. Would always be.

Jean coughs, dribbling spit. Holding Jean's tie with one hand, Nino reaches for toilet paper with the other and offers it to Jean. Jean takes it, wiping his mouth, and tossing it into the toilet. He flushes it and huffs out what might have been a laugh.

"I feel like garbage," he croaks, half turning to face Nino.

Nino purses his lips.

"Thank you," Jean continues. "I really hate for you to deal with this."

"It's alright," Nino says, quietly.

"You're thinking you should have made me stop drinking earlier, aren't you?" Jean says, frowning at him. "It's not your fault I can't drink."

"I could have tried harder-"

"We both know I wouldn't have listened."

They look at each other: Jean defiantly, Nino helplessly.

"You're here," Jean says, "and I'm th-" He wheels back around, coughing sharply into the toilet bowl again.

Nino absentmindedly rubs circles on Jean's back. "I'm here," he affirms. Once, only once, without thinking much about it, his fingers trace the shape of a heart.


	20. intoxicated

Nino fumbles with the keys outside his apartment, holding up his weight by heavily leaning on the doorknob. The door gives way, and he swings with it, sliding to the floor, head thumping against the door's wooden frame. With a sluggish hand, he pushes the door close, and messes with the lock until it clicks securely.

_I don't think I drunk that much_ , a distant part of him thinks. He runs a tongue over his lower lip. _I could use more scotch._

It takes some effort to stand and walk to the kitchen, but he does it, pouring himself a drink with surprising skill, given the alcohol already in his system. He looks down at the scotch, seeing himself reflected back in watery amber, seeing all the hurt in his eyes and the shadows under them Jean has always missed.

"What does Mauve have I don't?" he mumbles, and downs the shot. He swallows it wrong, causing him to cough. Annoyed, he pours himself another, not quite as elegantly; a drop spills on the counter. He glares at the drink as if it's the root of all his problems, though he knows that, if anything, it's the short-term solution. He drinks it quickly, not even tasting it.

He's Jean's friend, wholeheartedly. He stands by him, with him, regardless of everything. To hear him go on and on about how wonderful the Director-General is, though, doesn't sting any less. It hurts more, really, because Nino can never do anything about how utterly, stupidly, helplessly he's fallen for Jean. It hurts more because it's one thing to love your friend from afar, and another thing to hear him gush about someone else. Someone you could almost be.

He knows what Mauve has that he doesn't. She's a woman, first off. He laughs dryly, humorlessly, and swipes the bottle off the counter, taking it with him as he wobbles to the sofa. He sits and immediately takes a long drink straight from the devil's neck itself. She has freedom: her life is her own; her choices are made by her own will. She has distance from Jean, which has likely made him hoist her even higher on a pedestal, as he can't see her flaws from up close like he can with Nino.

He drinks, the scotch numbing the pain as it flows down his throat. If he'd been born just as her, would Jean look his way?

_But that's in a life I don't know_ , he thinks, lying on his back in the sofa. _A life that never was. Never will be._

He raises the bottle to his lips and finds it empty. He sets it down on the floor. Throws an arm over his closed eyes. Hopes to any god that's out there he'll be granted a dead, dreamless sleep.

 


	21. hungover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this follows the last chapter/oneshot

Nino doesn't wake up so much as he is suddenly aware of a hammering in his temples and a flickering of light beyond his closed lids. He groans, flipping onto his stomach, but the cotton fibers pressing up against his eyes and the mattress pushing back onto his uneasy stomach make him feel sicker. He turns back on his side, away from the window. He opens his eyes half a centimeter, seeing his room through his lashes. Seeing how it spins.

"Fuck," he mutters, closing his eyes.

He's not been hungover in a long time. Tipsy, yes; that's not too uncommon. But waking up feeling like his brain, eyes, and throat have been jellied in a blender and then pounded back into his body? Last time he got so careless with his drinks, he must have been in college.

Well. Not careless. It was carefree, in that occasion. A celebratory mood among a bunch of twenty-year-olds in a party Jean got dragged into, so there Nino went, ten years anyone's senior, pretending otherwise. It had been fun. A genuine college experience, if stupid, but they were young.

Yesterday... yesterday had been different. He wishes he could be like Jean, who can drink and forget what's happened the following day. No, Nino remembers, can relive the previous day's events, and it only makes him want to drink more in a futile attempt to chase alcoholic amnesia. Yesterday, Jean had gone on about Mauve. Which was nothing too unusual. How pretty her hair was, or how smart and capable she was, or her accomplishments, or how helpless and useless Jean feels when she's around: Nino's heard it all before, all from Jean's dumb, drunk, lovestruck mouth.

Apparently, even Nino can break.

Though it seems like his legs are twigs bound to snap, Nino forces himself to walk to the bathroom. Over the sink, he splashes his face with water. He cups his hands, allowing the water to pool, and takes a drink. It helps. A little. He watches the tap run, somewhat entranced by the sound of it swishing away. But he shuts it, in the end. And glances up to see his reflection.

He's a mess; it almost makes him laugh. Red-rimmed eyes, mussed hair, ashen skin. Not to mention the symptoms no one else can see, but that he feels all too vibrantly.

_Guess I'm staying home today_ , Nino thinks.

He goes back to his bed, pulling the covers over his head. He's not sleepy. Just tired. Down to his bones, weighing him down. Even so, he closes his eyes, hoping against hope sleep can reclaim him.

His phone buzzes. The vibrations travel through the wooden nightstand it rests on and to Nino's teeth. So loud. He groggily reaches for it, to shut it up, and sees he's gotten a text from Jean.

"Fuck," he mutters again, throat as dry as a desert.

The light from it is blinding to his sensitive eyes. He holds the phone at a distance and squints at it.  

_Lotta wants to know if you can come over for dinner today. She's cooking._   

Nino's muscles ache, yet he manages a smile.

_I can't actually go a day without you, can I_ , he thinks, typing out a reply: 

_I can go._

 

_Great. See you at 6._  

He turns off his phone and tosses it back on the nightstand. He's gonna need a hell of a makeover. But he'll go, like the dumb, hungover, lovestruck shadow he is.


	22. devil's luck

Jean's sleeping form is nothing but a lump beneath the covers. The top of his head peeks out, strands of his splayed hair catching the moonlight. He breathes, slowly, blanket rising and falling to its rhythm: in.... then out, in... then out.

Nino's cheek is pressed against his pillow, warm from the night's use, and he'd flip it over to the cool side if he wasn't entranced by Jean.

Despite the dark, Nino watches him. For a few minutes his lungs have been stuck with the exhale he meant to let go of when he woke up, but that he withheld when he saw Jean. It's silly, he'll admit it. They're long past the awkward transition between friendship to relationship. Even then, they've known each other for years. Nino knows how Jean looks like, enough he's even in his dreams as lifelike as could be.

Yet seeing Jean this intimately still takes his breath away. It feels a little like he's at the top of a roller coaster beginning to drop, his stomach flying up to his throat in a thrill, except the rush down never ends.

Everything Nino has ever done has been for Jean. He hadn't expected to receive anything serious in turn. That Jean was there at all was enough.

Nino's pillow half obscures his smile. _Guess I didn't know him as well as I thought._

In fairy tales, princes hardly fell for their knights. They _especially_ didn't fall for knights they didn't even know were knights, and that they should by all rights have shunned after learning the truth.

But then again, if the prince wasn't aware he was a prince, did these tired tropes apply? Could they have _ever_ applied when the prince was Jean? _Probably not_ , Nino thinks, eyes crinkling.

There are a lot of things Nino likes. Chocolate, motorcycles, photography. There are things he loves, too, namely his dad and the Otuses. But there is only one person he's in love _with_ , and he's right next to him.

Obviously he'd taken bullets for Jean. It went further than duty, that decision. He'd lived, unexpectedly. Jean had said Nino had the devil's luck. For surviving.

For his feelings to be requited.

Lying in that hospital bed, Nino couldn't have possibly known, in fact never once dared to think, that that would be the case.

But it had been.

Quietly, as to not disturb Jean, he flips over his pillow, its cool welcoming. Jean has thankfully not moved. He does let out out a small whine, though, whatever he's dreaming slipping into the real world.

God, how Nino's heart flutters. He's so, so, so in love and so, so, so incredibly lucky. If he has a devil to thank for finally finding his place, then so be it.


	23. a drink or two

They've been walking in companionable silence for a little while when Jean speaks up.

"Hey, Nino," he says, swinging his hand so it nudges Nino's.

"Hmm?" Nino says, curling his fingers around Jean's without thinking about it.

Jean moves close to his ear. Drops his voice. "Lotta's visiting the king tomorrow."

"That's nice."

Apparently this is not the response Jean wanted, as he stops walking.

Nino stops, too. He raises an eyebrow, confused.

"What I meant, Nino," Jean says, slowly, "is that there won't be anyone else home with me."

"That's a given, if Lotta won't be there."

Jean gives him a very flat look.

Nino blinks. "Oh. You want me to come over."

"Yes."

"What time?"

"I get out of work at four, so five will be fine." He lightly tugs on Nino's arm, indicating they're walking again. "We can have dinner."

"Sure, if you let me cook."

Jean loops his arm through Nino's. "If I can help."

Nino smiles, pressing a kiss to the top of Jean's head. "Of course. Food tastes better when it's a group effort."

"A group of two."

"We are my favorite group."

Jean leans against him. "You sap," he says, smiling. 

* * *

Nino slides the salmon in the oven. "Can you set the timer for twenty minutes?" he asks Jean, who's somewhere behind him.

"It's set," Jean replies.

"Alright." Nino takes off the oven mitt and puts it by the stove. "Now we wait." He turns. He smirks. "Is that butter?"

"Butter?"

Nino points on his own face a bit below his eye. "Right there."

Jean mimics the gesture. His finger comes away with a swipe of what is, indeed, butter.

Nino laughs. He rips off a paper towel from the roll hanging next to the sink and delicately wipes Jean's face.

"Thank you," Jean says.

Nino kisses the spot he's just cleaned. "Mm-hmm."

"While we wait, can we drink?" Jean asks, moving past Nino to open the fridge door.

"Without any food in your stomach?" Nino crosses his arms. "Is that wise, for you?"

"Probably not." He holds up a bottle of wine. "But I want to do it."

It's not like Nino has the capacity in him to refuse Jean, anyway. "I'll get the glasses."

They settle on the couch. The cork comes off the wine with a hearty pop, and Jean pours both their drinks.

"To groups of two," Nino says, raising his glass.

Jean smiles. He clinks his glass with Nino's. "Your favorite group of two, you mean."

Nino takes a sip of his. "That I do."

Jean drinks. He rests his head on Nino's arm stretched along the top of the sofa. "No other duo matters."

"And you called _me_ the sap," Nino teases, fingers weaving through Jean's hair. The motion gets a small sigh of contentment from Jean, making Nino's heart flutter all over again, like it did for the first time so many years ago.

"We should listen to something," Jean suggests. He reaches for the TV remote and searches for the music streaming app. He looks at Nino. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I was fine with nothing but the click of the timer."

Jean pouts. "That doesn't go with drinking wine. How about something classy... hmm... oh, jazz." He makes the appropriate selection. The soft croon of a saxophone accompanied by a slow piano and drums comes from the speakers. "There." Jean takes a drink. Nino notices the tips of his ears are starting to turn pink. "That's more like it."

Nino has to admit the ambiance is quite nice. If the lights were lower it'd be better.

"I'm gonna lower the lights," Jean says, setting his glass down and standing up, wobbling a little.

Nino's free arm reaches for him. "Hey, I'll get them."

Jean plops back down, smiling not-entirely-soberly at Nino. "Thank you."

With the lights dimmer, and the music playing softly, and Jean looking at him across the room with half-lidded eyes, the mood is quickly shifting away from a dinner date. He walks back to the sofa. Jean's drink is empty.

Jean puts his hand on Nino's thigh. His smile is wicked. "Please pour me more wine."

Nino suddenly remembers _how_ Jean had first told him Lotta would be out, and belatedly realizes this was never about a dinner date. He brushes Jean's bangs aside. "Alright," he says, "but I'm going to turn the oven off, first."

"Aw, okay."

He clicks it off, and undoes the timer as well. While he is somewhat disappointed things have escalated so soon because he _was_ hungry, he can't really complain. Jean is Jean. _And_ , Nino thinks, heading back to Jean and pouring him another drink, _he gets a little wilder when he's like this._ And _that_ is not disappointing.

Once it's poured, Jean takes the glass and downs half of it.

"Take it easy," Nino says, rubbing circles on Jean's back when he coughs.

Suddenly Jean twists, pinning Nino down on the sofa. His own glass spills from his hand, tumbling harmlessly on the carpet, but leaving a trail of red drops in its wake. Part of Nino is worried about that mess. Only a small part, though. Most of him is intently focused on how Jean is straddling him.

"I will," Jean says, ducking his head so that Nino can't see the blue of his eyes, just his lashes. "You should, too." He cups Nino's face and kisses him. Heavily, messily. Somehow perfectly.

When Jean's like this, it's best for him to take the lead. Not that Nino minds, not even a little. He follows Jean's movements. It was nice to give, but also receive. Nino shudders, everything about Jean spinning his head.

Jean gets off from Nino. He extends a hand toward him. Entire body pulsing, Nino takes it, assuming Jean is going to take him to his bedroom.

Instead he drags him outside to the balcony.

The setting sun is at such an angle Nino has to hold up an arm to block out its blinding light. He does so, and sees Jean's eyes are locked on his. Jean lowers Nino's arm and places it very low on his back.

"We should have sex here," Jean says, immediately fumbling with his sweater.

Nino stands there, processing this.

It takes about two seconds.

"Jean, we're on the _roof_ ," he hisses, trying to push Jean's sweater back down.

"Yes, and?" comes Jean's voice, muffled. He tries to wriggle free from Nino. "Let me get naked, Nino."

"We're outside!" Nino says. "People can see!"

"Good!"

"No, not good, Jean!"

He quits struggling and goes limp in Nino's hold. "Nino," he says after a bit. "My head is stuck in my sweater. Help."

Nino sighs. He scoops up Jean and heads back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is based off [this tweet](https://twitter.com/AudreyPorne/status/894319890445750272) which is EXTREMELY ninojean-core


	24. crime of passion

The water flowing from the tap is hot, and Nino's hands are starting to get red. Plates clink and clatter as he washes them and hands them to Jean, who dries them before placing them on the rack. It is a quiet, methodical little process they have here. Somewhat lulling too, with the sound of the water as background noise to the motion of washing, handing over, repeating.

"Thank you for helping," Nino says, somewhat drowsily, as if in a dream.

Jean hums. "It's nothing unusual."

They're at Nino's apartment, having cooked and eaten together. Lotta is out of town for the weekend on a field trip. With it being winter, the Otus' apartment in the top suite was lonely and quieter occupied by only one person with the muffled snowy city below them, far out of reach. Or so Jean had said when asking Nino if it would be fine to stay with him these two days.

The reasoning didn't matter. Nino would always welcome Jean. Even if the proximity did make his head spin and his fingers twitch from the doubling of his less-than-noble thoughts.

When Nino ate over at Jean and Lotta's, he helped with clean-up. It was natural for Jean to do the same at Nino's apartment. Nino, knowing who Jean really was, found it funny. And weird. _A prince is helping me dry my dishes._ He gives Jean the last of the cutlery, turning off the faucet with a squeak. He can still feel the gushing of the water beating his hands.

"All done," Jean says, giving Nino the dish towel so he can dry his hands. He smiles. "We should have dinner here more often."

Nino almost drops the towel before hanging it on the rack. Before Jean had come over, he'd had to put away the photographs of him he'd kept, and what little personal items he had that might give his identity away. Having to do this repeatedly would be troublesome. "Your place is bigger, though."

"At most there are only three of us, at the least – like now – two. Besides," Jean says, leaning against the wall with unintentional grace, "we don't need much room." He tilts his head to the side, strands of hair falling in front of his eyes that Nino really wants to brush away. "We just need food and each other."

Nino is consciously breathing in and out, as even as he can make it with his heart and head fluttering.

Jean blinks. "Hey," he says, straightening.

Steady exhale. "Yes?"

Smoothly, Jean moves toward Nino, cups his face, and thumbs the thin skin below his right eye. Nino stops breathing. He stares at Jean, who is close enough to kiss.

Jean takes a small step back. "Eyelash," he explains, showing Nino his thumb, where the eyelash is.

"Ah."

Jean glances at the eyelash. "I think you're supposed to make a wish when an eyelash falls off."

"I don't have anything to wish for," Nino says after a tiny pause, clenching his left hand without thinking about it.

"That can't be true. Everyone wants something."

He turns his head aside. It's too much. "What we want may not necessarily be what's best for us."

"It's only a wish."

That it is.

"Oh, well," Jean says, and Nino hears a little _phoo_ of him puffing out air. "Damn, sorry. It landed on your turtleneck. I'll get it-"

Everything Nino's held back over the years rushes over him. _Possesses_ him. His hand darts to wrap around Jean's wrist, and he pins Jean to the wall. The only sign of surprise on Jean's face is the slight widening of his eyes.

Nino tips his head forward. His bangs brush Jean's. He can feel Jean breathing out, and it's no faster than normal. Unlike him.

"Should I not have done that?" Jean quietly asks.

Three quick beats of his heart hump in Nino's ears before he remembers what he's supposed to be. And this isn't it. He lets go of Jean like it's burned him and puts a good distance between them. "Sorry," he tells the floor. "Reflexes."

Jean nods slowly, and Nino isn't sure if it's meant to be acceptance of that terrible excuse or a wordless response that means nothing but acknowledgment it's been heard. "The eyelash fell on the right side of your turtleneck's hem." He points on his own shirt the general location.

Nino finds it and plucks it off. "Thanks," he says, throat dry. 


	25. just you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a high school oneshot bc it is my hc jean briefly had the dokis for nino then

Jean rests his hand on his cheek, watching the breeze outside weave through the courtyard trees and skitter the first few fallen autumn leaves. _Nino's_ _running_ _late_ , he thinks.

Late for Nino, anyway. The two of them are always among the first, if not _the_ first, to get to class. There is still plenty of time before first period. But it is unusual for Nino to not be there. The corner of Jean's mouth turns down. _And it doesn't feel right._ This will be their third year of friendship, yet it feels like so much longer.

It's common for friendships forged in high school, seemingly strong as iron, to rust after graduation. People realize they didn't have that much in common with those they called friends but proximity; people grow and drift apart from their past; people move and start life anew. Life happens, and it exists much more grandly after high school.

Jean hopes, more than anything, that that is not Nino and him.

He feels fairly good about it. Nino _understands_ him. There is no shallow friendship out of convenience between them. They are like-minded, had been drawn to each other precisely because both of them were quiet. Together, though... together, Jean knew they were unstoppable. No one made him laugh or be so at ease like Nino did. Certainly no one had been there for him like Nino. He expected little but gave Jean everything.

Including, unwittingly, a crush.

This, now, is probably due to proximity. Probably. Because it's not like Jean really talks to anyone else, or is even interested in doing so. He just has Nino, with his ever-present camera clicking away, smilingly capturing the simple but happy moments of their everyday lives.

Jean tucks a lock of hair behind his red-tinged ears.

His eyes flick back to the courtyard. There is a steadier stream of students flowing inside the school. None are Nino. _Where is he?_ Jean wonders, somewhat concerned.

A girl below catches his attention. She is off to the side, repeatedly smoothing down her skirt with one hand, holding a heart-shaped box behind her with the other.

Thinking it is for Nino with no further clues might be far-reaching. Still Jean's stomach is tight.

So many smitten girls have given Nino chocolate over the past few years it's become a bit of a joke between the two of them. Nino always turns the girls down, then shares the sweets with Jean. He should definitely not feel relieved about it, but Jean does. Even a little smug. He may not be able to tell Nino his heart also maybe kind of flutters around him, but at least he _has_ Nino.

The girl suddenly straightens. Jean traces her line of sight. Nino is hurriedly heading for the school gate. Jean's little finger on his cheek moves to his pursed lips.

Nino doesn't notice the girl; he single-mindedly walks toward the school. She has to jog after him, presumably calling his name, as Nino turns. Jean thinks he can see her mouth moving. 'I like you,' she's probably saying, like all those other girls. 'It's alright if you don't return my feelings.' She hands him the box. 'Please have these chocolates.'

Nino's back is to Jean, but he can also accurately guess what he is replying yet again. 'I'm not interested, but thanks.' He takes the chocolates anyway, and Jean can't help a smile. Nino goes inside the school, and Jean loses sight of him. But he'll be here soon enough. The girl stands there a few seconds before heading inside too, shoulders deflated.

"Morning. Sorry I'm late," says a familiar voice.

Jean looks up to see Nino sliding in the seat in front of him.

"I have loot, though," Nino continues, holding up the box of chocolates.

"I know," Jean admits, folding his hands on the top of his desk. "I saw from up here."

"Did you know the girl?" Nino asks, opening up the box. He offers its contents to Jean first.

It doesn't mean anything, but there's that fluttering inside of him. He grabs a bonbon and bites it. "No, why?"

Nino takes one made of dark chocolate. Obviously. "If the girl you like gives me something, I don't want it to be a problem. I'd return the chocolates."

Jean stops mid-chew. "You don't have to worry about that," he mumbles.


	26. the simple things

"I'm home," Jean announces, tossing his briefcase carelessly on the sofa, loosening his collar.

"How was work?" comes Nino's distant voice, muffled by the corners and walls that separate them.

Jean trudges to their bedroom. Nino sits on the bed with his laptop, going over some photographs from his most recent job.

Jean wiggles off his shoes. Then, careful not to disturb Nino, he throws himself on the bed face-down. "Mmf."

"I see," Nino says. He runs a hand through Jean's hair. "Remember how I told you once you could be my assistant? The offer stands."

Jean turns his head so his cheek rests on the covers and looks up at Nino, one-eyed. "I don't know anything about photography. What would I do?"

"Stand there looking pretty." Nino's hand stills. He kisses the top of his head. "You're quite good at that."

"Ha ha," Jean says, flatly, but the corner of his lips is quirked up.

Nino's attention returns to his laptop. There is a soft click every now and then.

Jean watches for a bit. But he gets bored. "Can you play with my hair again?" he asks. "It felt nice."

Nino smiles at him. He sets the laptop aside, and Jean crawls on him.

"I really like your hair," Nino tells him, his fingers coursing from Jean's scalp to his neck.

"How so?" Jean murmurs, Nino's touch and the day's heavy workload making him sleepy.

"It's thin and silky. Easy to part." As if to show this, Nino brushes back his bangs and leans down to press his lips to Jean's forehead. "It means I can do that," he says against Jean's skin.

Jean, closing his eyes, sighs contentedly.

"And I like the color," Nino continues, sitting back up, but not ceasing the easy, comfortable movement of his hand. "Reminds me of sunflowers. But when you're outside and it's sunny, your hair lights up, and it looks like gold."

Jean peeks up at Nino through his lashes. Nino's expression is tender and very in the moment, his eyes on Jean like it might be the last time they ever meet. And Jean's insides flutter, like he is falling in love all over again. He sits up and cozies himself against Nino. "You have it bad," he teases.

"I do." Nino chuckles. "But so do you."

Jean leans his head back on Nino, smiling. "Yeah."


	27. belong

Jean's mouth is set tightly in trying to avoid his teeth chattering as he walks inside his apartment. The building was warm, but inside his home it is the perfect temperature. He sighs, comfortable, closing the door behind him.

"Is it still cold out?" Nino asks, lounging on a sofa.

Jean nods, extending a bare hand toward Nino. "Here."

Nino smiles and takes it. "Wow, you're freezing. Didn't you bring gloves to work?"

"I forgot them there and was too lazy to go back."

" _Jean_."

"I got through it knowing it'd be warm here." He tosses his coat and briefcase aside, then sits on Nino's lap, leaning back against him. "And you, too."

"Hmm," Nino says, tone amused, wrapping his hands around Jean's stomach.

It's snug, but it could be more. Jean shifts so he can rest his cheek in the crook of Nino's neck.

Nino jumps. "God, you're cold!"

"I know, we established this. I want to not be cold anymore."

Nino sags, giving in to Jean's wintry skin on his. "Please give me a little warning next time."

"Sorry." He kisses Nino's cheek. "All better?"

"I'm not sure," Nino replies, unwinding his hold on Jean to tap his lips. "I might also need one here to know."

Jean takes Nino's face in his cold hands. Nino's yelp is swallowed up by the brief kiss he gives him.

"I can't believe you!" Nino says.

Jean is laughing, settling back against Nino. "I couldn't resist."

"You're gonna pay for that."

"Wait, what-"

Nino stands. He effortlessly hoists Jean over his shoulder, and the world flips.

"Unfair," Jean says, arms flopping as Nino walks.

"I'll see you in court, then."

"Which court?"

Nino opens the door to their bedroom and puts Jean down on the bed, climbing on top of him, smirking. "This one."

Jean returns the smirk, twining his hands around Nino's neck. "I hope your argument is persuasive."

Nino leans in as close as he can get without yet kissing Jean. "It will be."

Their lips meet, and, not for the first time, Jean knows he is where he belongs.


	28. return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> introspective nino from ep 12

When a caged bird is freed, it flies away in a frenzy of feathers, chasing the sky.

Lesser birds, anyway.

Crows are smarter. A crow in a cage would wait, momentarily. The promise of freedom could be a trap. If not, then what was out there beyond the familiar metal bars could be much different than the dreams that have shaped the crow's expectations. Often dreams are grander than life. Perhaps it would be best to never leave, to always imagine what could be without the risk.

But crows are curious creatures. There is a chance of disappointment or things worse. Yet there is also a chance the world beyond the cage's confines is better than it had ever hoped.

Nino stands there, the green grounds of the cemetery spreading in every direction. It is as open a space as it could get.

_You're free_ , he is told, and left to think about that.

He briefly feels agoraphobic. There is grass everywhere he looks, dotted with graves. The steel of the city looms in the distance, as does whatever is next. _Anything_ could be next.

_I'm free_ , he thinks, looking down at the camera he'd placed on the gravestone.

That camera has been his second pair of eyes for years. It has seen what he has seen, and perfectly remembered it all. Its time is through, now, and it has been returned to where it belongs.

Nino glances at the sky. Its particular shade of blue, summery and clear, is achingly familiar.

He is free of his royal duty, capable of traveling the country with his motorcycle. But there is only one place he belongs, and it is where he has been for a very long time.

Nino leaves the graveyard on his bike, going to where the person with eyes the same color as this sky waits.


	29. definitions

"Sorry for the wait," Jean says, sliding into the car, carefully closing the door.

Grus shakes his head. "It's perfectly alright, sir. The length of your audits isn't something you can control."

Jean shrugs. "I can smoke, right?"

"Yes, but please open the window."

Jean clicks his lighter more than necessary, its tinny beats filling up the inside of the car. A tiny flame arises with each click, but he doesn't let it burn long, watching the flame come and go as the lighter clicks on, click off, clicks on.

He snaps the lighter shut one last time, cigarette between his teeth, and repockets both of them. "Grus," he says suddenly, and he can sense the man tense, "do you mind if I ask a personal question?"

"Uh, along what lines, sir?"

Jean rests his elbow on the car door, staring ahead as intently as if he were the one driving. "Are you still seeing Eider?"

"Oh. Yes, sir."

"So you're in love?"

Grus splutters. "Wh- yes, sir, of course I am. I wouldn't be with her otherwise." He briefly glances at Jean, troubled. "Why did you want to know?"

Although Jean's eyes are wide open, he sees nothing at all. "How do you know?"

"How do I know what?"

Jean blinks, the street taking shape before him again. "That you're in love," he says, quietly.

Grus relaxes. "If you don't mind _me_ saying, sir, this isn't like you." He lets out a small laugh. "Hmm, it's hard to quantify. You just know." He gives Jean another quick look, but seems to take in a lot in that second. "And it varies from person to person, I think. So what it is for me might not be for you."

"Well, say there's this person you really get along with," Jean says, his thoughts spilling from him. "Like half of you was missing your whole life, but you never knew it until you met them and were finally whole. It doesn't feel right when they're not there, and when that happens, you can only think of when you can see them next. When you do see them, maybe your heart still skips a beat, but for the most part, it's... comfortable and right; it's like- like coming home," he finishes lamely, a spot of warmth growing on his cheeks as he realizes he's said this to a subordinate. "I'm sorry, Grus. Bringing this up was inappropriate."

Grus turns left, and Jean sways in his seat. "It's alright. I'm flattered you asked me, if I'm being honest." He slows the car and brakes to a gentle stop, sets the car on park, and turns to Jean with a sympathetic smile. "You basically called this person your other half. I think you already know how you feel about them, sir."

The tense knot that had long been inside Jean slowly disentangles itself. "Yes," he says, feeling light, "I... think you're right."


	30. do i need a reason why?

It just kind of happens: Jean is sitting in front of Nino, wearing a quiet smile the bar lights overhead make glow, holding a cigarette with practiced ease in one hand and a wine glass in the other, and he says something mundane, something he's said before, yet still Nino thinks how absolutely important it is he hear this if for the hundredth time, and immediately thereafter he thinks, _I'm in love with Jean_.

Romance isn't something Nino has thought of at all. There is no time for such frivolities. He has long had a role to keep in past, present, and future – a role no one could possibly join him in. He's never been bothered by not being able to pursue a significant relationship. He'd told himself it wasn't needed, not in this life. Imagining the trials of falling in love was a strange concept, one learned only from books and films and Jean's drunken rambles.

So he had a vague idea of what it was, but it was as if he'd studied it rather than experienced it.

And it seems to him, at this precise moment, that everything being in love is supposed to be is what he feels about Jean. There's the listening to him, regardless of what he was talking about, with utmost attention. There's the watching him, and not the watching he as a bodyguard is meant to do; it is a painstakingly detailed, enthralled watching: the way sunlight or artificial light changes his hair from gold to amber, the angle his smiling lips curve at, the motion of his hands when walking or speaking or drinking or smoking, the every little thing that makes Jean _Jean_. That had naturally led to all of Nino's thoughts being centered around Jean, whether from lighthearted things, like thinking he'd like a certain mug Nino had seen, or to the aches with Jean-shaped absences leading to stray wish-you-were-heres, or to the darker desires that sometimes seeped into Nino's dreams – and, he burned with shame to admit, his consciousness. That should have been a hint about the truth, really, but he'd swept it away as all else not related to his job had to be.

He had never pursued any deeper line of thought, any link between Jean being there and his better senses not. He'd simply been aware Jean had this effect on him, whatever it was, but it was not to affect what he was there to do. Which is why the realization makes him still for what should be a few breaths' worth, but which do not happen. His lungs seem to have stopped working, and his brain lives on the little oxygen he'd just previously taken in.

 _This is love, isn't it?_   Nino thinks. _It's_ been _love._

He's starting to get a little dizzy from not breathing and from not having seen this sooner and from not having prevented it. People like him aren't supposed to fall for their princes.

"Nino?" Jean says, in that lovely voice of his, now tinged with worry. "Are you okay?"

People like him aren't supposed to fall for their princes, but how could he not? Despite himself, Nino smiles. "I'm fine."

"You had a distant look." Jean taps ash off his cigarette, then brings it back to his lips for an inhale, making it all uncomfortably attractive. "What were you thinking about?"

 _You_. "I don't remember." The lies have come easily for the entirety of their friendship. Perhaps it was why he'd fooled himself, as well. "Just sort of spaced out."

"Hmm," Jean says, corner of his mouth quirked up in that half-mocking smile he'll only give Nino, he realizes with a flutter. "So even you do that."

"Why wouldn't I?"

"You always seem so perfect."

More fluttering. Nino pushes it down. "'Seem'? I _am_." He speaks purposefully glibly, to make Jean laugh, to hide insecurities about who he really is.

Laugh Jean does. It might be Nino's favorite sound. "No wonder women are all over you."

Nino's smile flickers. "Right," he says, resuming his role, trying to keep the flatness from his tone. "Right."


	31. like this

The moment Jean closes the hotel door behind him, he throws his ACCA jacket at the bed. Then it's his tie, snaking silkily on itself. And then it's himself, sinking into the mattress with a sigh.

_Hare is too warm and humid, even at night_ , he thinks, aware of every place his shirt and pants stick to him with sweat. _How does anyone live here?_

Feeling like he's dirtying the bed by laying on it, he sits back up and finishes undressing, exchanging his work uniform for loose and comfortable clothes.

_I'll have a quick smoke before I shower_ , he decides, going back out into the tropical night.

The Hare weather makes him miserable, but the landscape makes up for it. _I'm sure this is why people stay_ , he thinks, looking up at the inky blue-black dome that is the sky. Myriad stars are speckled across it, forming constellations he can only see in books back in Badon. The silhouettes of palm trees rise tall at regular intervals; the swishing of the ocean is not very far.

He ends up at the courtyard. Native flowers and shrubs, lit by low lights half-buried at their bases, are prettily arranged around it. In the middle is a pool glowing bluish-white from its own strategically placed lights. For a late-night smoke in a distant district, it's quite a nice spot. Quiet. Secluded.

He leans against a pillar as he lights a cigarette, tilting his head up to let go of the smoke. It leaves his lips in a white cloud that stretches and thins and quickly turns to nothing. The stars he had briefly obscured with it twinkle clearly again.

_Well_ , he thinks, taking another drag. _It's not like they'd stopped._

He takes a fraction longer than usual to exhale to savor the smoke. The cigarette is the same kind as always, but it doesn't taste like it. There are hints of Hare within it, tropical and smooth. And he'd stored his cigarette case in his jacket for who knows how long, so it's a little dry. But more than anything, it's his present surroundings that change the cigarette. Chlorine, nicotine-

"Is that you, Jean?"

He blinks and turns his head. Walking toward him is a figure in the dark, but not a stranger. Jean is smiling before the other is close enough to be recognizable – visually, anyway, because Jean knows that voice very well.

"You booked the same hotel as me, Nino?" he asks, lowering his cigarette.

Nino chuckles and takes his place by Jean. Some things don't change. "I swear I didn't know you were staying here. My gig happens to be nearby. But the ACCA office isn't." He smirks. "How do I know _you_ didn't follow _me_ this time?"

"I didn't," Jean mumbles, turning his face away. And it's the truth, but his face turns pink as if he is guilty. The night thankfully obscures it. "How did your job go?" he asks, to change the subject.

"Fine." Nino crosses his arms and leans against the pillar, brushing Jean's shoulder. "Hare's not my kind of place – it's too hot and humid – but money's money. At least it's nice to photograph."

Jean's smile returns, having been thinking the same thing earlier.

"How about you?" Nino continues. "You seem a little worn out."

"Mmm, from the weather, mostly." He raises the cigarette back to his lips for a quick inhale that he is careful to exhale away from Nino. "Hare has their stuff together. The sun and humidity just get me, too."

"Let's not ever move here."

Nino had included Jean in that statement, probably without even realizing it. Still it makes Jean's heart light.

"We won't," Jean assures him, the 'we' slipping out of him like smoke. But he doesn't flinch from it. It has been said, and he stands by it, dizzy as it makes him to openly bind himself to Nino like that. He takes a greedy breath from his cigarette, greedy enough Nino raises an eyebrow at him.

"Should you even be smoking here?" Nino asks, not without a smile.

The smoke quivers as Jean timidly lets it out. "I hadn't even thought about that."

"You, the ACCA worker, disregarding rules?" Nino's smile turns to a smirk as he plucks Jean's cigarette from his fingers. "What a scandal. This puts what happened months ago to shame."

Jean smiles. "If you give it back, I'll smoke elsewhere," he says, and he reaches over for his cigarette. But Nino raises his arm out of Jean's reach.

"Nope."

"Nino, come on." He stands on the tips of his toes.

So Nino takes two steps back.

" _Nino_ ," Jean says, quietly laughing along with Nino. The sounds are trapped by the courtyard, echoing and overlapping each other.

" _Jean_ ," Nino replies, and the way he says it, what has led up to him saying it, makes Jean's legs a little weak.

But his heart absolutely forgets how to function, simply stilling stupidly, when Nino takes a quick drag of the cigarette. Then he tips his head back and breathes out the smoke in a thin cloud. He looks back down at Jean, and if he has any thoughts on having his lips touch the very same place where Jean's had been, he doesn't show them.

"These things are terrible," Nino says.

The tip of Jean's tongue runs over his bottom lip. He realizes what he's done so mindlessly a heartbeat later, and bites the inside of his cheek. "Well, then give it back," he mumbles, reaching for it again, but Nino turns and blocks Jean. Jean, not to be outdone, immediately ducks below Nino's arm and lunges for the cigarette. But Nino blocks him deftly again, turning the opposite way.

"This isn't a game," Jean says, trying to hold back a laugh as he continues this odd dance with Nino, now toying at the edge of the pool.

"Hmm, no," Nino says, glowing from the moonlight, the artificial courtyard lights, and something else within him. "It kind of is."

Jean stops. He crosses his arms. "I just want to smoke."

"Do you now?"

"Yes."

Nino brings the cigarette, coming close to a stub, to eye-level. Ash falls off its end. "This little thing?"

"Yes."

Nino's eyes flick to Jean.

Under that gaze, piercing even in the night, Jean wants to simultaneously turn away lest his soul be searched and to steadfastly hold it until something more happens.

It's Nino who suspends the thickness of that silent moment by looking down at the cigarette as if it's made of something precious.

On some strange impulse, Jean moves, closing the distance between them in a few rushed strides.

But he walked too quickly, and Nino had apparently gotten lost in his thoughts as he contemplated the cigarette, because Jean trips and stumbles on Nino, making them both fall backwards into the pool. The splash is unexpected; as the water rushes past Jean's skin, it stings: ears, cheeks, nose. He blindly darts his arms around Nino's neck like it's his lifeline at the same time Nino holds on to him tight.

He feels Nino kick; he tries to do the same but stops when it sends sharp pain up his leg. Hoisting him, Nino swims upward, and soon they're breaking through the water, coughing.

"Jean," Nino rasps, "are you okay?"

His hair is sticking to his forehead, and the drops of water glinting off the ends of his bangs do not let him see. He unwraps a hand from Nino's neck to swipe his wet hair back. "I think I hurt my ankle," he says, and now being able to see, now able to take in himself holding on to Nino like this and Nino holding him back, makes him cough again.

"You _did_ trip. Though I don't even know how you managed that. Or... this."

The water is cool but Jean is warm and getting warmer. He glances off to the side, at the far edge of the pool where the water remains flat as a mirror. He can't bring himself to look at Nino, but neither can he bring himself to let his other hand around him go.

Nino doesn't say anything else. Still holding on to Jean, he heads for the edge of the pool. They hadn't fallen far from it, so it doesn't take long for Nino to help Jean up and then push himself out of the water.

"Should you be standing?" Nino asks, his normally downy hair sticking limply to him.

Jean has shifted his weight to his good foot. His hurt ankle throbs dimly. "I'm fine. Probably."

Nino frowns. "Here," he says, walking next to Jean. He winds an arm around Jean's waist while wrapping Jean's over the top of his back. "I'll help you walk to your room. Where is it?"

This sudden closeness – entirely voluntary and on Nino's part – expels what little air had been in Jean's lungs.

At his lack of response, Nino worriedly looks at him. "Jean? Does it hurt really bad or something?"

He quickly shakes his head. "No, I just- it's 341. On the other side. Kind of a long walk. Especially, um..." He clears his throat.

"I have time," Nino says, solemn.

"Oh." Jean flicks a stray strand of hair back. "Okay."

Their walk is slow and steady. The weight of Nino physically being there for him has Jean's heart stuttering the whole way.

"This is almost like when I take you home when you're very drunk," Nino observes, smiling a little.

"Except I was fully sober for this stupidity," Jean mumbles. He suddenly remembers the cigarette that had started all this. It was definitely at the bottom of the pool now as litter.

"I shouldn't have teased you, though," Nino says.

"I didn't mind that. I'm at fault for tripping."

"Which wouldn't have happened if I hadn't taken your cigarette."

"I wasn't even supposed to be smoking."

They look at each other and helplessly grin.

"How about we agree we're both at fault?" Nino suggests.

"And that we're both dumb."

He laughs. "That, too. Hey, we're here."

The key had thankfully stayed safely in Jean's pocket. He unlocks the door and hobbles in after Nino, who turns on a lamp.

"I'll get you a towel," Nino says, heading to the bathroom, leaving a trail of watery footsteps on the wooden floor. He returns quickly with two: one he puts on an armchair, the other he hands to Jean. "So you can sit while you dry yourself," he explains, helping Jean to the chair.

It's a very mild ankle injury, and Nino treats him this way.

"Thank you, Nino," Jean says, making himself meet Nino's eyes.

The lamp's light is not very strong, but it is just enough to see how nice, how genuine the smile Nino gives him is.

"It's not like I was going to make you limp here by yourself," he says, modest as ever.

"I mean, yeah, you wouldn't because you're... you, and-" Jean draws his leg in – uncomfortably, because his wet clothes cling to him – and puts his chin on top of his knee, mumbling, "You're always there for me."

Nino looks like he's about to say something – his lips part, his eyes glitter with the lamplight – but he doesn't. Instead he sits on the edge of the bed and gestures to Jean's ankle, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

"Right," Jean says absently, glancing down. Back up, at Nino. "Why didn't you get a towel for yourself? You're dripping."

Nino blinks, as if this hadn't even occurred to him. Being busy with Jean, it probably hadn't. "Let me see your ankle first," he says, kneeling. "If it's hurt bad, we need to take care of it right away."

"It really doesn't hurt much anymore," Jean says, taking off his shoe and sock.

Nino lightly grabs his foot. Self-consciousness burns at Jean's core and spreads to where Nino touches him.

"It's not very red or swollen, so that's good," Nino says. He pauses. Puts a finger to Jean's ankle. "Does that hurt?"

"No."

His eyes flit up. They're dark as dusk, tinged with worry and all the more lovely for it. "But it did when walking?"

_How do I look to him?_ Jean wonders. "Mm-hmm."

"Could you try rolling your foot?"

He does so, and winces immediately.

Nino stands. "I'll get you an ice pack. Do you need any painkillers?"

"No, it's not that bad. I just need to not move my foot." He pauses. "But please get yourself a towel. Not that I care about the floor getting wet," he hastily adds, "but that you're not- Um. You know. Uncomfortable, I guess." His ears burn.

"Oh. Yeah." Nino heads to the bathroom again, one towel draped around his neck when he returns, and a small one in hand. "Maybe there's an ice pack in the mini-fridge." He walks to it opens it. "Ah, there is." He wraps it in the smaller towel and hands it to Jean. "Put your leg up on the bed and keep this pressed to your ankle."

Jean nods. "Thank you." _Again. Always._ The towel's fuzziness tickles his skin, and the cold of the ice pack hits him a moment later. _I don't think I could ever thank him enough._ He stares intently at the makeshift ice pack, because if he looks up, acknowledging Nino's done what he came here to do, he'd leave. Though he does sneak a sideways peek: Nino runs the towel through his hair, unkempt tufts sticking every which way. Jean's fingers curl, wanting to smooth them down.

"So I should be going," Nino says, and Jean's stomach sinks. "I need to change into dry clothes. You should, too."

"Could you get them for me?" Jean blurts. "Um, so I don't have to get up. My clothes are in my suitcase, which I put on the other side of the bed."

The corner of Nino's lip quirks up. "I was just about to ask."

Something about Nino looking through and touching what Jean wears makes Jean lightheaded.

"Here," Nino says, putting the clothes on the edge of the bed. "If you need anything else, text me." He frowns. "You didn't have your phone on you when we fell in the pool, did you?"

"No, I'd forgotten it here."

Nino chuckles and knuckles Jean's head. "For once, your absentmindedness helps you."

Jean bites the tip of his tongue to keep an unbidden _I'd take you over my absentmindedness any day_ from being said.

"I'll leave you be-"

He has his hand around Nino's wrist before he knows it. He and Nino share a surprised look.

Nino's skin is cool – from the water, no doubt. Beneath his fingertips Jean can feel a fluttery pulse, but cannot tell if it's coming from him or Nino. Or both of them.

And he doesn't know why he's done this. Well. He knows a little. It's the same reason his throat is dry, and his voice stuck uselessly at its back. The same reason that makes him aware of how bare his lips are and how full his heart is.

So he knows, but doesn't want to know, why it is he tugs Nino down and places a kiss on his cheek as soft as the whispered thank-you that follows. He pulls away as if in a haze and finds Nino's eyes already on him. The blue of his irises is almost drowned out by the wide whites of his eyes.

"I-" Nino starts. Stops. Brings his free hand to his cheek.

"Sorry," Jean mumbles, letting go of Nino's other hand. "I should have asked-"

"What? No," Nino says, "it's fine." His hand presses more on his cheek. "It's fine."

Jean's embarrassment catches up to him, speckling his cheeks pink. "You're not even going to ask me why?"

Nino slowly lowers his hand, cupping his elbow. "Did you want me to?"

Jean shakily breathes in. "I don't know," he admits. "But just telling you 'thank you' doesn't really suffice."

The words hang tautly in between them. Then Nino smiles, and everything is alright once more.

"Let's get breakfast tomorrow. Text me then."

Jean shifts his hold on the ice pack. He smiles back. "I will."

"Alright," Nino says, nodding to himself. "Okay. Keep the ice to your ankle until you go to sleep." He puts his hand on the doorknob. "Goodnight, Jean."

"See you tomorrow, Nino."

And he leaves, but Jean doesn't feel alone. The arrhythmic beat of his heart lasts through the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok that's all i have For Now but there are a few things i haven't gotten to writing yet. i'll add them here when i do. i said i loved them alright


	32. lie

"Okay," Jean says, drunkenly laughing over nothing at all as he shifts on his kitchen bar stool, "let's do that one game next, the one with... lies? And truth?"

The way he words it brings a humorless smile to Nino's lips. _We're already playing it_ , he thinks, not without a tinge of guilt. But what he says is, "Two truths and a lie, you mean?"

"Yeah."

Nino sets his feet down from his stool's foot ring to the floor, stretching his legs as he leans back a little, eyeing Jean's apartment. Warm yellow lights glow above them while a single lamp in the living room behind them is on, casting the area in a dreamy light that gives way to friendly shadows. It's a real home, lived in and loved. Nino's own place, empty even when he is there, somehow is always cold. Here, despite not being part of the Otus family, he feels... comfortable. Better.

Present company notwithstanding.

"I guess that's fine," Nino says, though really anything Jean suggested would be fine with him. He smiles at him, genuinely now. "But you go first."

In general, Jean is not a good liar. Drunk like this, he'll be even worse. It'll be funny to see. Nino would be lying himself if he said he didn't want to see that.

Jean takes a close-eyed drink of his wine. Nino's eyes inevitably fall to Jean's throat, which just barely moves as Jean drinks. Nino tends to cover up his own throat with turtlenecks, but Jean prefers V-necks that show off his collarbones.

Nino's not the one drinking, but he swallows all the same.

Jean puts his drink down on the wooden counter and turns to Nino. "First," he says, cheeks pink, "is that Grosh- Grossular is the reason I even joined ACCA. The second thing... is that I'm bad at drinking. And the last thing is I smoke."

Nino raises an eyebrow, trying to hold back a smile and failing. "Jean, all of those are true."

"Hmm?"

"Did you forget one of the statements had to be a lie?"

"Really?"

The smile turns to a quiet laugh. "Yes, really. _You_ suggested this."

Jean folds his arms on the table and puts his head down. "Okay, but I'm drunk."

"You sure are," Nino says, resting his cheek on his palm, and did that sound maybe _too_ affectionate? "You don't think right when you're like this," he hastily adds, as if to chase away his previous words. He takes a quick drink of his wine.

"Let me retry," Jean says, sitting back up. He looks aside, lips pursed, as he thinks about what he is going to say. His eyes are bright with the overhead lights and the glimmer of alcohol. Bright as the late-autumn stars twinkling beyond the glass balcony. Then Jean's eyes flit back, and as they levelly meet Nino's, it really does feel like Nino is staring right at a pair of stars slowly and hotly boring into him.

Jean holds up a finger. "I like bread." Another finger goes up. "I don't know anything about my extended family." Another. "Um. I... forgot."

They share a laugh about it.

"You go, then," Jean suggests, briefly touching Nino's arm. "Like you say, I'm hopeless. 'Specially drunk."

Nino pauses. He takes another small drink. Looks up to think. It doesn't take him long to come up with what he wants to say. "The first thing," he says, eyes still on the ceiling, "is that I've never dated anyone. The second thing is that I've fallen asleep on my bike before. And the third thing is that..." His eyes swing down, taking in glassy-eyed pink-faced Jean, who isn't going to remember any of this tomorrow morning, who has no idea of the grander lies surrounding them like smoke, who sees Nino nearly daily but cannot see _into_ him as he burns, burns, burns by his side. "I'm in love with you."

Time is suspended; his voice lingers in the air. Neither of them move. And Nino wonders what would hurt more: if Jean brushed that aside as a lie, or uncomfortably took it as truth?

Jean blinks at him. Then, unexpectedly, he smirks, leaning close to Nino. "That's the lie. Too easy."

Nino is sitting, but he feels the sensation of falling, with a rush of blood away from his head and a dizzying lurch in his stomach. So there is his answer.

"If you'd dated someone, you would have told me," Jean continues. "And you try to act cool but you're as forgetful as me so it wouldn't surprise me if you fell asleep on your motorcycle. But anyway." He puts his head down again, closing an eye but keeping the other on Nino. "If you were for some reason in love with me, I'd be able to tell."

Nino doesn't know whether to laugh or cry. His voice comes out different than usual as he says, "What makes you think that?"

"Nobody knows you better than me."

Nino lets out a long, silent exhale that seeps away some of his strength.

"Do I win anything for getting it right?" Jean mumbles, closing his other eye.

This is normally where Nino would have something glib to say. But right now, he has nothing.

He doesn't need to say anything, though, because Jean is already asleep.

A few heartbeats pass before he finds his voice again. "Jean," he tries in a whisper.

No response.

"Jean," he says again, quieter still, "none of those were lies, either."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually found this one and the following fic Deep w/i my gigantic fic file. i'd forgotten i'd written them at all..... that's how much ninojean i have in my heart and my computer too apparently


	33. someone

"So there's this guy."

That's how Jean starts his sentence, and it is also how Nino's heart rate kicks into overdrive – because the way Jean is leaning too far forward on the table and the way the pink on his face blooms makes Nino think for one small, insignificant moment the very thing he's played in his mind enough times to seem real might actually be.

"Oh?" Nino says, careful to keep his tone casual despite the way his heart is leaping toward his mouth.

Jean looks to the side, a smile lopsidedly on his face. "You know him," he says, pretty blue eyes half-lidded from alcohol, pretty pink lips half-obscured by his hand on his chin.

The urgency of that tiny three-worded thing Nino has wanted – _needed_ – to tell Jean is heavy on the back of his throat. But he has long had practice in keeping it down. He continues the years-long friendly facade Jean knows, even though it's been killing him more lately. "Do I?" he asks, the better-thinking part of him warning him he's reading too much into this, but the din of the bar and the drumming of his heart drown that voice out.

Jean turns back around, folding his arms on the table, laying his cheek on top of them so that he looks up at Nino. His eyes are glassy and more open than they ever are when he's sober. Like a clear lake, letting Nino see all the way down to the depths. It's a dreamy, fond look Jean wears. And Nino drowns.

"You do," Jean says, smile and voice so dripping with affection Nino wants to kiss it off him, to just reach out and tug on Jean's tie and wordlessly show him what he means to- "You interviewed him."

Nino's thoughts are immediately smothered by fog, and so is his airway: from nose to throat to lungs, something thick presses down, and he can neither breathe in nor out. The maddening frenzy of his heart has come to a sudden sickening stop. It lurches to the bottom of his stomach, sending a splash of acid that burns all the way to his mouth.

_You should have known better_ , that voice from earlier chides, in acid of its own. _What are you except your job?_

"Oh?" Nino says again, because he can't come up with anything else.

"The prokesu- prosecutor who uncovered the organized crime link to that one politician."

Nino's shoulders slump in a shadow of relief. "Jean, he's married." Then he stiffens again. "Wait, has be been flirting with you?"

Jean sits up slowly. "I _thought_ he was flirting, but you know I'm not good at that kind of thing. So I guess he was just... being nice." He pouts. "Is he really married? I don't 'member reading that."

Nino folds his hands and sets them on the table. "I didn't think it was necessary to include that in an article about his job." Having his hands out in the open where Jean can see doesn't feel right, and he settles them on his lap. But that doesn't feel right either. His hands go to his sides, stiffly, concentrated with everything he cannot say. "What made you think he was flirting with you, though?" he asks, sounding light enough.

"Now I'm embarrassed to tell you," Jean says, putting his head back down. "Just... things people do to be nice. But I read too much into it."

"Okay, but like what?" He's said it too insistently; he realizes it with a wince the instant he says it, and it stings further when Jean's eyes widen at him. "I mean," he quickly continues, "maybe you're right, and if you are-"

"I'm not." Jean buries his face in his hands. He groans. "It's embarrassing, Nino." He drops his hands, but keeps his eyes off to the side. There is more red speckled on his face. "You're right; he was just being nice. Holding the door open for someone at a coffee shop is normal when they're right behind you. So is friendly small talk when you're in line. And when you run into that someone again the same way, it'd be weird _not_ to say anything." His hands go back to his face. "It's so embarrassing, Nino."

Nino lets himself sink back on the seat. It really does sound like Jean misread things. He gives a small huff of relief that he hopes Jean didn't hear, and he probably didn't, being too absorbed in confessing his mishap.

"I guess you can get over him quicker," he says, meaning it as a joke, but traces of something bitter seep through. Is it worse when Jean falls for a woman, which Nino is not? Or when Jean falls for a man who Nino could have been in another lifetime?

Jean's hands slide down: one lays flat on the table, the other reaches for his pint of beer. "Yeah," he mumbles before taking a swig.

Nino's eyes fall to his own drink. It's too tempting to down it. But he shouldn't, not right now. _Your job, remember?_ There is no time for self-pity over lost love. He's not even lost anything; he never had anything to begin with. He never will. Which hurts. Obviously. But it's not like he has any right to feel what he does, anyway. That he is by Jean is enough; that he can call himself Jean's best friend suffices.

He's someone to Jean that way.

 


	34. shining armor

"Thank you Nino, really," Jean says, slinging a messenger bag over his shoulder. "I'll be back around one, I think."

"It's no problem. Take your time with the exam so when the real thing comes along, you're prepared."

"Jean studied a lot!" Lotta says from her spot on the floor, eyes glued to her Saturday morning cartoons. "He's gonna do super great!"

"Thank you too, Lotta," Jean says, lip quirked up. He turns back to Nino. "Well, you know how babysitting her works and where everything is."

"I most definitely do," Nino says, lightly ushering Jean toward the door, "so quit dawdling here."

Jean's smile widens. "Fine, fine." He still pauses for a moment under the door frame, though.

Nino can't help a smile. "You'll do great, Jean. And in a few months, ACCA will have the best person they could ask for."

He pushes his glasses up by the nosebridge, likely without thinking about it. "Thank you," he says, shoulders relaxing. "Well. See you in a few hours."

"Mm-hmm."

Jean closes the door, the sound of it finalizing. Nino turns to Lotta, still absorbed by the television.

 _When she's also grown_ , he thinks, _then I'll_ really _be old._

It seems only a week ago a summer breeze through a school window had knocked down the pencil that made him say his first words to his prince. But it's not been seven days, rather seven years.

 _Time passes too quickly_. He sits on a sofa to keep an eye on Lotta, munching her child-sized pancakes. _I wonder where we'll be in seven more years._

Nino has to constantly think about the future, to plan for every little possibility in this false life he's forged, but he doesn't like to. It means acknowledging there will be an end to his peaceful present: the Otuses will meet other people and someday start their own families, all while Nino gets pushed further into the periphery, where he will eventually draw one last pained, lonely breath. In seven years, Lotta will be 15 – starting high school, starting the very age Jean was when Nino made his appearance in his life – and Jean will be 29, an age where it is not atypical for people to start settling down.

He bites the tip of his tongue.

"I finished my breakfast!" Lotta chirps, standing in front of Nino, holding her small plate and cutlery. She beams, one of her teeth missing, proud of her accomplishment.

Nino blinks at her. Remembers where he is. Smiles affably at her. "Very good, Lotta," he says, taking the plate from her. "I'll take care of these for you."

"Thank you! But did you see, Nino? Did you see?" She trails after him, pointing to the gap in her mouth. "One of my teeth fell out! It was two days ago!"

"I did see. You're growing up, aren't you?" he says, washing the plate.

"Yup!"

Not that she can see, but he smiles sadly at that. "And did the tooth fairy leave you anything?"

"Yes! But I already spent it on cookies..."

He laughs. Love of sweets runs strong in the royal family.

He finishes washing the rest of what Lotta used and puts them on the drying rack. When he turns around, he sees Lotta is back by the television, mimicking the poses the character on the screen does. Vaguely, he remembers that the character is a superhero.

"Are you practicing for when you're a heroine?" Nino asks her, walking back to the sofa.

"Nooo," Lotta says. "I don't wanna be a superhero. I wanna be a princess!"

It's like he's been punched in the stomach, with the air huffing out of him at once. He has to take a couple of seconds to remember how to breathe, to remember what to say. He chooses to go with a quiet, "Do you?"

"Yes! I want pretty dresses and a big, big castle." She twirls, the ruffles in her imaginary dress seeming to appear in a colorful swirl before Nino's eyes. She giggles to herself, then stops and points at him. "And you can be my knight, Nino!"

He looks down at his hands. A heartbeat later, he looks back up. "I think I might be already," he says, the corner of his mouth pulling upward into a tired smile. It settles back down. "What about Jean, though? You know he wants to work for ACCA. It's why he's studied so hard lately."

"He can work in the ACCA in Dowa!"

"Does he get to live in the castle with you?"

"Maybe on the weekends."

His laugh is quiet. "That would be hard for me, you know. I couldn't watch over a princess in her castle and a prince in an ACCA branch at once. There's only one of me."

She pouts. "But you're my knight, not Jean's. You always stay in the castle!"

"If I'm your knight, I have to be Jean's, too." He leans forward on his knees. "How about this: we visit your brother at work every day, but on the weekends, when he's in the castle, you pick what we do."

She hums, considering this, then grins. "Okay!" And she runs off to her room, cascade of eager and ever-changing thoughts leading her elsewhere.

With a sigh, Nino leans back on the couch. He holds his arm out. Rather than a gleaming gauntlet, the soft cotton of a long-sleeved shirt covers his arms. Instead of knowing how to wield a sword, all his hands know how to do is use a camera. And where he should bear medals of gold, he bears a secret the weight of lead.

 _Some knight I am_ _,_ he thinks _._


	35. cold

The forecast had predicted a cold and overcast day, which was unsurprising, given it is December. So Jean had dressed accordingly for a dinner date with Nino: coat, scarf, boots. What the forecast had failed to mention that a breeze would later pick up, making it colder yet.

Only a few minutes after they leave the restaurant, the cold has numbed Jean's bare hands. He opens and closes them to get some feeling back into them, but all it does is make his finger joints creak as if frozen over.

"You really forgot gloves?" Nino asks, looking at Jean's paling hands.

He makes his hands into tight fists and shoves them to the bottom of his coat's pockets. "Yes."

"It was going to be cold and windy, you know."

The corner of Jean's mouth turns down. "I missed the 'windy' part. I thought I could handle the cold alone without gloves."

"Somehow, that's like you," Nino lightly laughs. He starts taking off his gloves. "Here."

"What- no, I can't take them away from you, Nino," Jean says, shaking his head. "This is my fault. It's only a ten minute walk back home, anyway." In the depth of his pockets, he idly rubs his thumbs over his knuckles for a smidgen of heat. "I'll manage."

"This is nothing. You're clearly cold."

"But they're yours."

At that moment, the wind peaks, sounding like a forlorn cry as it cuts through naked trees and between steel buildings. Jean, squinting to see, tucks his face into his scarf and bunches the cloth in his pockets inside his fists. Quickly as it came, the wind dies down. Silence settles.

Then.

"Jean," Nino says, always like his name is the only light left to him, "anything mine is also yours."

The cold has been burning his exposed skin, and now these words bring a fire of their own beneath it. "They're just gloves."

"Exactly. I don't know why you're being so stubborn about not taking my gloves, of all things."

"Because," Jean says, mumbling to his scarf, "then _you'll_ be cold." He determinedly looks straight in front of him, dull as the gray city is, knowing that if he met the heart-fluttering, ice-melting gaze he can feel Nino give him, he'd take the damn gloves.

Then Nino steps in front of him, grabs his left arm to free it from his pocket, and promptly puts a glove on his hand. "There."

"Nino," Jean starts, about to protest, but stops. It would be halfhearted, in truth.

"You can use one glove at least, Cinderella," Nino says, smiling.

"'Cinderella'?" Jean's lip quirks up. He looks down at his hand; the very tips of the glove's fingers hang uselessly. "Her slipper fit exactly. Your hand's a little bigger than mine."

"All the better for it." Nino takes his place back to Jean's right as they resume walking.

"How so?"

And he reaches for _this_ arm, gently, to take his cold hand in the warmth of his. "It means I can do that," Nino says.

Jean sighs, giving in, and leans into Nino's own light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's really been pain city here sorry hghgj i will get the happier things i had planned to write out of the way first before getting angsty again


	36. give, receive

"I don't mind winter," Nino says, his words turning to puffs stark against the plum-colored evening, "but that the sun sets before five is annoying."

Jean hums in agreement. The sun had been shining, if feebly, when they'd gone inside the department store. Stepping out to find darkness draping over the city was disorienting. Something in the back of his mind suggests maybe they'd spent more time shopping than he thought, but looking at the time confirms that it had only taken thirty minutes. He shakes his head, as if that'll take away the last of his apprehension.

"Thank you for coming with me," he tells Nino, fixing the shopping bag's handle so it nestles in the crook of his elbow, leaving his hand free to be tucked in his coat pocket. "It was good to get a second opinion on my present for Lotta."

"Don't mention it. It also made me even more certain she'll like what I got for her."

Jean raises an eyebrow. "What'd you get her?"

Nino laughs. "I'm not telling."

"I can keep a secret," Jean says, something like a pout tugging at his mouth.

"I know."

"Nino, come on. You know what I got her."

"That I do."

He's definitely pouting now.

"Opening presents should be fun for everyone, not just the people who they're for," Nino says.

"If that's supposed to be your reasoning, and if that's supposed to make me okay with it, it didn't work."

Nino laughs again, and it fits perfectly along to the faint sound of bells from a carol being played at a nearby plaza.

Unlike Lotta, Jean has never been passionate about the holiday season. But the widespread sense of goodwill and the hindsight of a good year gone by do leave him at peace. And the presents, of course. Though it wasn't that he liked getting them so much as giving them. Seeing something that reminded him of Lotta or Nino, gifting it, and getting a genuine thank you was worth looking forward to. There were birthdays as well, yes, but Jean felt that in December, the purpose of gift-giving was more... real.

He glances sidelong at Nino, himself unable to settle on admiring any one city decoration for too long.

 _And that's why_ , he thinks, _I don't like that I don't know what to get you_.

Nino catches Jean's eye. The quiet smile he wears wasn't directed at him – rather at the holiday spirit evident in the city – but for a moment, a dizzying moment, Jean thinks it is.

"What is it?" Nino asks.

"I didn't say anything."

"It seemed you were about to tell me something."

Jean opens his mouth to refute that, but he can't bring himself to. Neither can he bring himself to admit he doesn't have Nino's present yet. Jean has long prided himself on knowing Nino better than anyone – especially now, with all past secrets spoken aloud. Admitting he's lost on this would be admitting he's not as close to Nino as he thought. His stomach sinks.

"You look upset," Nino says, worry tinging his voice. "Is me not telling you what I got Lotta bothering you that much?"

"That's not the problem," Jean quickly says.

"There's a problem?"

Jean clicks his teeth. Bites the tip of his tongue. Sighs. "What is it that you want?"

"For you to tell me what's the matter. If you're alright with it."

Jean's brow furrows in confusion, but he soon realizes he misspoke. "I meant what is it that you want as a present." He takes a hand out of his pocket to smooth his already-smooth hair. "For the first time, I don't know what to get you."

Nino blinks at him. "That's it?" He sounds amused.

Jean nods.

The neon lights of advertising businesses reflect off Nino's dark eyes, bobbing like colorful fireflies. It makes them visibly brighter, but so too does Nino's smile.

 _Pretty_ , Jean distantly thinks.

"Jean," Nino says, "I would like anything you got me."

Despite the tingling warmth at the tip of his ears, Jean huffs. "See, that's another problem," he says, and immediately wishes he hadn't. Or at least not so brusquely.

"What? How?"

He takes a moment to think about how to say it. "You can be assertive, you know. Just because I give you something doesn't mean you have to like it."

Nino looks at him as if he's started speaking another language. "But... I mean it."

 _That's the worst part_ , Jean thinks, the warmth at his ears spreading to his chest.

"If this is worrying you so much," Nino says, "you don't have to get me anything."

Jean immediately stops walking, and now it's him looking at Nino funny. "No. I'm getting you something. You have to want _something_."

"I don't," Nino calmly says, but only after a few heartbeats have passed.

Jean sets his mouth into a thin line. "Is it expensive or something? Or rare? Because if so, it doesn't matter. I want to give you something you like, and if it means splurging, that's okay."

"I don't want anything," Nino says, briskly resuming walking.

Jean catches up to him, grabbing him by the elbow. "It's something about cameras, isn't it? And only someone into that hobby would know where to look?"

"It has nothing to do with photography."

"So you _do_ want something."

Nino's eyes flit everywhere. "No- well, I mean- you don't-" He purses his mouth and glances at Jean's hand still on his elbow, which makes Jean self-consciously lower his hand, before looking in front of him. "What I want doesn't cost anything, but it's worth too much."

Jean frowns. "That makes no sense, Nino."

"You can't give it to me, and it's fine. I'll take anything you give me; I told you."

"You're being dumb. I'm giving you coal," Jean grumbles.

They spend the rest of their walk home in disquieting silence, with Jean mulling over what Nino had said and occasionally glimpsing Nino's way. Nino betrays no hints as to what he's thinking.

Before they split to head to their respective homes, they always exchange a goodbye. As they get close to the intersection where they part ways, Jean dreads it. _I still don't know what he wants. And I think he got mad at me._

They don't yet have the right of way at the intersection and stop. Nino looks toward the direction Jean lives in then turns to him.

"Just get me a sweater or something," he says, sounding tired. "Night, Jean."

Jean barely has time to process that and mumble out his own 'goodnight' before Nino walks away.

 _I still have t_ _hree_ _weeks left to get him something_ , he thinks seconds later, crossing the street when the pedestrian light glows green. _I'll figure out what he wants._  

* * *

His apartment building's lobby is lavishly decorated, partly in thanks to Lotta's eye, mirrored by their own apartment's adornments. She hasn't finished putting everything up, evidenced by open boxes at random spots. He carefully steps around them as he heads to his room to hide Lotta's present. When he goes back to the living room, she's there, nursing a mug of tea.

"Oh, hey Jean!" she says. "I didn't hear you come in."

"Probably because you were making your drink," he says. That he'd gone shopping for her is a secret.

"Hmm, I guess." She curls up on a sofa. "How was your shopping trip?" She sips her tea without breaking eye contact with him.

He looks away and sits down on the sofa opposite her, at the furthest end. "Fine."

"That didn't sound 'fine'."

His eyebrow twitches.

"Let me guess: nothing was good enough for Nino."

He stills. Then slowly faces her. "You thought I was shopping for him?"

"Were you not?"

"Not on this trip." He sinks into the plush back of the sofa. "But I don't know what to get him. So you're not too wrong, in a way."

He hears the clink of her setting her mug down. "Did you ask him what he wanted? It's not as fun, but at least you know he'd like it for sure."

"I did," he says, prodding the sofa cushion with his index finger as far down as it'll go, "and he said that what he wanted didn't cost anything, but that it was worth too much. That I can't really give it to him. I don't know what that means."

Lotta hums in thought. "It doesn't cost anything... so it's probably not a _thing_. Maybe something abstract?"

"That's even worse than not knowing what he meant. How do you give something abstract?"

"I don't know; I'm just trying to figure it out!" She taps her chin. "Okay, so if it's not physical, but it's still worth a lot, and Nino doesn't think you'd give it away... hmm. Oh!" Her hand shoots to her mouth.

Jean sits up. "What? You think you got it?"

"Um, you know what, I'm going to ask Nino to come over tomorrow. I need help putting up the garlands and lights. And I'll try to get a better answer from him."

His shoulders tense. "Is that necessary? I can help you finish decorating."

"You can both help me. But yes, I need him here to wheedle more out of him!" She regards him with a glint in her eye. "Why, do you not want him here? Did you fight?"

"I don't know if I'd call it a fight," he mumbles, posture slackening, "but it was... awkward for a bit."

"Well, you'll have to get over it!" She stands up, getting her phone from her pocket and typing expertly with one hand. "Otherwise you're gonna have to give him chocolates or something, and while he may like them a lot, that's kinda boring at this point. You can do better by figuring out what he wants exactly. Aaand done!" She pockets her phone with a smile, grabbing her mug. "He'll be here tomorrow at eleven."

"You get things done," Jean says, smiling a little.

"When it comes to you two, I pretty much have to."

His smile flips to a confused frown. "What does that mean?"

"Nothing at all!" she chirps, heading to her room.

"Do none of you say exactly what you mean?" he mutters to himself, getting up for a smoke outside.

It has gotten colder, and he keeps one hand firmly inside his pocket while the other holds his cigarette. The smoke he drinks in warms him up, and then he lets it go, watching it mix with his own cold exhales.

 _Something that cost_ _s_ _nothing but is worth too much_ , he thinks. _Something I could do, but that Nino doubts I would_. He turns his head in the direction Nino lives in, but his building hides low, lost among the steel-and-glass skyscraper sea visible from this height. Then Jean remembers how Nino had looked toward Jean's apartment's direction.

He almost drops his cigarette. _Does Nino want to move in_ _with us_ _?_ It wouldn't cost Jean anything – they already have a spare room – but it is in a ritzy complex. It makes sense; they already spend a lot of time together, and Nino is over more than he's not. But perhaps Nino doesn't want to outright ask out of politeness, out of the strict sense of duty and distance that he's been better at breaking down now that they are unneeded, but that returns from time to time. He'd probably want to pay rent, too, but Jean would never accept it.

 _That must be it_ , he thinks, somewhat giddy for solving it. He puts out his cigarette and walks back inside. 

* * *

The following day, it's Lotta who answers the door for Nino. Jean is sitting down, busying himself untangling lights from a box as well as his own thoughts on how he'll tell Nino he can move in but not worry about payment. It would make Jean laugh that after knowing each other so long something as small as this could be an issue, but Nino was brought up to serve the Otuses. Years of that cannot be overcome so quickly, even after leaving that life behind. The important thing was to be patient, which Jean is, especially because it's Nino. Resolving Nino's housing will require some work, but they can do it.

"I think you're tying that back up, which is probably the opposite of what you want to do," comes a familiar voice behind him.

Jean turns to see Nino smiling at him. "I didn't realize," he says, glancing back down. The tips of his ears warm up.

Nino takes a seat beside him, reaching inside the box to pull out another set of tangled lights. "How many boxes of these are there?"

"Three," Lotta says, peeking her head past the door frame. "But the garlands are in one of those. I'll take care of them."

"Hey, those are easier," Jean says.

"Yup! Tell me when you're done!" She disappears.

Jean stares at the empty spot she's just left. "I can't believe her," he mumbles.

Nino chuckles. "There's two of us, so it won't take us long. Probably."

Jean sees an opening here, a segue into confirming Nino's wish to move in here. He carefully focuses on the mess of lights in his hands. "But if it did take long, you wouldn't mind, would you?"

"Of course not. I'm happy to be here and help with whatever you need."

Lights tinkle against each other as they both work on straightening them. "What about when you're not here to help?" Jean asks, a little quietly. "When you're just... here."

Jean still steadfastly looks down at the lights, but the smile in Nino's voice is so obvious it's as if he can see it. "I'm _always_ happy to be here."

This is what Jean had thought, yet hearing it from Nino makes his chest flutter. "Right," he says, meaninglessly, firmer in his deductive belief.

They pass the next few minutes in companionable silence, each disentangling their own string of lights, Jean privately thankful yesterday's awkwardness had melted with the night.

"Done," Nino says.

"Already?"

Nino smirks. "Either I'm better at this than you, or you got the more twisted one." He stands up. "I'll be right back."

Jean watches him go, suddenly remembering that Lotta herself was going to try to get a better answer out of Nino, and would feel sorry for him if Jean wasn't desperately needing to know what Nino wants.

By the time Jean finishes straightening his share of lights and finds Lotta, it seems she's done questioning him, as she's got a rather self-satisfied smile. Nino isn't there.

"Did you find anything out?" Jean asks.

"Nothing new," she answers blithely. "I think you're the one who'll get a direct answer out of him."

"Oh."

"Are you going to put that up for me," Lotta says, pointing to the lights in his hands, "or are you going to mope about him all day?"

"I'm not moping," he says, defensive, handing Lotta one end of the lights before going up the stepladder.

"Nope, you are!"

"How," he says, a bit louder than normal, "do you want me to hang this?"

"I put the fasteners up yesterday, so just follow them, please!"

Together they wrap the lights around the room. When they're three-fourths through, Nino walks in.

"I untangled the other box of lights," he says. He briefly meets Jean's eyes, though it's over as quick as a breath. He clears his throat. "So those are good to go."

"Thanks, Nino!" Lotta says. "After this set of lights, we're putting those up, then the garlands, and then we're done."

"I can put some up alone," Nino suggests.

"Are you sure?" Jean asks, looking down at him, head momentarily spun by the height. "Holding all the lights by yourself while hanging them is kind of annoying."

Nino smiles as he leaves. "I'll manage."

Jean bites the inside of his cheek, and without being conscious about it, speeds through hanging the rest of the lights to go help Nino.

"Throw me the lights," he tells him.

Nino blinks down at him. "You finished fast."

"I wanted to help you."

"Are you worried I'll fall or something?" Nino teases, but hands over the neat rope of lights regardless.

Jean can feel heat rise to his face.

Oddly, a speckle of pink appears on Nino's face as well.

They say nothing else as they inch the stepladder around the room to hang the lights. The lack of what to say next gnaws at Jean.

So it's not too surprising when the moment they're done and Nino descends the stepladder that Jean blurts, "I think I know what you want for your present."

The widening of Nino's eyes is slight, but Jean is familiar with their shape, and he catches it. "You... do?" Nino says.

Jean leans back against the doorframe where they've finished, eyeing the room. "It has to do with us, right?"

Nino takes one careful step to him, though his arms are crossed. "Yes."

"It was time, I think." As important as this is, Jean cannot bring himself to look at Nino; the floor has his full focus. "Really, I should have noticed you wanted this sooner." Now he turns his head up. Nino is closer than he realized.

Jean swallows down butterflies. "We'd love for you to move in with us. This has been your second home for a while, you know. You don't have to worry about anything."

He hears and feels Nino take a sharp breath in. "Ah," Nino says, voice small, shoulders imperceptibly sinking.

Jean's lips part, a question lost in his tongue, but he refinds it a heartbeat later. "Was it not that?"

"It's not- I have thought about it, and I do want that, please don't think I'm refusing you, but-" He purses his mouth, crosses his arms tighter, tilts his head up, and suddenly gapes at something.

"What-?" Jean starts, looking up as well.

A sprig of mistletoe is hanging above them.

Jean's head rushes as he quickly looks back to Nino. He mentally goes over what has happened. Over Nino's flustered behavior. Over how Nino isn't looking at him, but how he's angled toward Jean while drawn in to himself.

Like fog clearing before the sun, it comes to Jean. "You like me."

Nino winces. "When you put it like that, it makes me sound like a kid."

"You like me," Jean says again, butterflies swarming inside him so terribly he half-thinks he'll breathe a real one out. "What you wanted was to be in a relationship with me. It can't be bought. If I didn't return your feelings, it'd be weird between us, so you never wanted to risk telling me. You didn't want to ruin what we already had."

Nino covers his face with his hand. "Yes, and now we can drop this forever and pretend it never happened."

Jean grabs his wrist, taking his hand away from his flushed face. Finally their eyes are on each other's.

"What makes you think I don't like you back?" he says, as soft as the way his eyes flutter close, as soft as the way his lips touch his.

It's a kiss lasting no longer than a blink, but for how Jean tingles all over, it might have been a century. He stays close to Nino, drinking in the blue of his eyes, not daring to speak and break this moment.

"I have to say," Nino murmurs, twining his hand with Jean's, "this isn't how I thought this would go."

Jean smiles. "How did you think it would happen?"

"Well, not in your apartment, or due to putting up holiday decorations, or because of a misunderstanding."

Jean pauses. Holiday decorations. For Lotta. Lotta, herself acting like she knew something since Jean had told her of his gift dilemma.

"Oh my god," he says, resting his forehead on Nino's chest.

"What?"

"Am I interrupting something?"

They both look right. Lotta, expression sweet, holds more decor in her arms.

"You knew. You planned this," Jean says.

"I don't know what you're talking about!" She smiles innocently. "I see you two figured out I hung mistletoe myself yesterday, but I do want these garlands around all our doors. We're not done here!" She goes away into the next room.

Jean shares a look with Nino.

"So," he says.

"So?" Nino prompts.

Jean smiles. "After we finish, what about a lunch date?"

Nino squeezes their hands together before letting go. He smiles back. "A lunch date it is."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had forgotten 'all i want for christmas is you' was a real song until i was like 1/3 done w/ this


	37. holy trifecta

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to do smth a lil different! so this is in second person, which isn't everyone's thing, and i understand, but it was fun to do
> 
> rated t for blood stuff and mild sexy stuff

**i. blood**

You jump in front of the gun, and the burning metal bite of the bullets – one, two – strike your skin, move through muscle, become on the brink of burrowing into your bones. Kisses of fire, kisses you do not want, but that you have to take, with eyes squeezed shut and white-hot pain growing. It hurts to breathe and it hurts to think; it hurts to _exist_ , as basic as this. All you can do is lay there, copper and gunpowder on your tongue, feeling the blood flow out of you. Every frenetic pulse of your heart, timed to the painful pulses emanating from your wounds, simply pumps more blood out of you.

This in exchange for Jean's life. You're vaguely aware he's calling your name, or what is probably your name; they're rounded, tip-of-the-tongue little things he's saying. But because he's saying them, it doesn't matter what it is. You listen.

You try, at least. Your senses – five of them, you think; it's getting cold and your head is stuffed with cotton – are screaming that these bullets are too much. It hurts beyond hurting; this sears and blooms, terribly so, taking a life of its own – perhaps seeped from yours – and taking on a sole purpose of exquisite torture.

But Jean is safe. Only that matters. It always has. In the shadows you've long lingered, doing your part to retain this sacred truth. You are intimately familiar with all shades of black. You are less familiar with red, this red you've now sacrificed, dripping like spilled wine.

It's appropriate, funnily enough. Kind of makes you want to laugh, if it wouldn't shatter your ribs, if it wouldn't scrape your throat. This red is pumped by the heart, the very thing of yours Jean owns without realizing. Here you are, bleeding it out for him to see at last. With it comes all the other things you've hoarded away inside you, free of their flesh-and-blood prison. You wonder if Jean can see them form a filmy layer atop your shed blood. Here's the first day you watched over him, meters away. There is the time you officially met. The time you met his parents. The time they, and yours, were taken. Days of healing. Prom and graduation. Studying for the ACCA entrance exam. Nights out drinking. The first time you thought to yourself you were probably in love with Jean. The time you realized it was true, and every other time thereafter.

A life, laid out in puddles of blood. The truth in red, painted rather than said. But it's out there now. It's free.

You hope the darkness, that estranged friend of yours, takes you soon. Whether it's brief or eternal.

**ii. sweat**

You're together. It still rings of delusion: you, the guardian in black, pining; him, the prince wrought of gold, oblivious. You had accepted your feelings just as you had accepted their futility. You weren't meant to overstep the careful distance that duty bestowed upon you, and with it over, neither would you fracture your friendship.

You thought you knew Jean, but you couldn't have known he'd toss these beliefs of yours aside without a care, because you had never dared to hope he'd feel the same about you. But he did.

It was like an explosion, then. Years' worth of adoration and devotion made tangible. The precarious balance between who you were and who you yearned to be tipped dizzyingly into your every want. You wanted to touch him, and your fingers grazed the whole of him. You wanted to kiss him, and you brought your lips to his with a fierceness that got a noise out of him so delicious you tasted the rest of him to hear it again. You wanted to let him know how much he meant to you, and he wrapped his arms around your neck, and he pleaded for it as desperately in need of it as you were, and none would have been able to discern where you ended and he began.

Your hair had stuck to your forehead with sweat, as had Jean's, and you looked at him and thought with a heart full to bursting that you were his and he was yours at long, long last.

He's beside you now, on this night like recent others. Your bed wasn't meant to accommodate two people, and you have told yourself to get a larger one so you each have a comfortable half to sleep in, but you'd have to forgo these nights of being close, limbs still tangled, warmth blooming between you. This is comfort. This is home. This is yours now, and you can't, won't let it go.

Your bedside lamp is on, a single beacon of light in the dark. It leaves Jean in a dreamy honey glow, suffused at the edges. His eyes are closed and he's trying to sleep, but you can tell by his breathing he's not yet dreaming. Your right hand is twined in his while your left rests on the cool cotton bed sheets.

The sheets fall messily around Jean, so with your left hand you properly cover him; it will get cooler later. You cover him but your hand lingers at the edge of the sheet. Slowly, you move your hand beneath it, lightly tracing the curve of Jean's spine. Bony bumps beneath his skin, traveling up to the nape of his neck. Soft strands of his hair cling there still. You'd like to brush them aside, but that would certainly stir him awake, and you don't want to prolong his descent into dreams. Your eyes fall to his neck, graced by love bites. He'd tasted of salt and cigarette smoke, and it might be better than chocolate.

No. It _is_.

Jean peeks an eye open, and you're about to apologize for waking him, but his smirk stops you. Then he asks if you're going to look at him with your hand cupping his neck all night, or if you're going to kiss him already.

You're more than happy to oblige.

**iii. tears**

You can't quite elude the color black, it seems. But where once it meant the cloak of secrecy, it's now exchanged for something unmistakably true.

Your tuxedo is perfectly tailored, and you look at yourself in the mirror. Not ones for superstitions, you had already seen Jean in his and he in yours, back at the fitting. You'd both gotten breathless, and then you'd both gotten bashful smiles, because this was really happening, wasn't it? And happening here, of all places. You flit your eyes to the window. Dowa spreads out leisurely on its rolling hills, beneath the regal height of the palace. You'd grown up here, left it behind because of the princess, and had come back to it with that princess' son – if just for today, where the vows you and Jean will exchange will reverberate in halls as old as the kingdom itself. You're adding your own little history to the grand scheme of the nation's, in a way. Besides marrying its quiet prince, of course.

You have to grip the sink to keep upright.

A polite knock on the door and a polite inquiry as to your readiness.

One more self-reflection, happening in the span of a blink: you, smiling so widely it hurts, the tiniest and thinnest lines beginning to show around your eyes, dressed for your own wedding to the very person that had once been unreachable. The very person for whom you've shed blood and sweat and-

And you will shed tears. You know this as surely as you know every contour and dip in Jean's body. You've never been much of a crier, but this won't be so today. You've made it, after all. You've forged the life that was once the strayest hope, the wildest dream. You're here and so is Jean, who waits.

You've both done enough waiting for a lifetime.

To the person beyond the door, you reply in the affirmative, and you open it with a creak to step into this new life of yours.


	38. expecting you

The twine of the paper bag handle is starting to chafe Nino's hand. _Damn gourmet shops with their fancy bags,_ he thinks, switching hands to more comfortably hold it. He smiles. _But it'll be worth it soon._

He checks the time on his phone. _Well, soon-ish._

An unorganized stream of people, suitcases in tow, flow through the automatic glass doors, which barely have time to close. It's too early to be Jean's arrival flight, but Nino's eyes still flit on every face he sees, disappointed when none are the one he wants.

_Maybe I should have left later_. He chuckles at his own thought. He would never. He'd rather wait for hours than miss time with Jean. Besides, this is a surprise; he cannot be late for that. Better safe than sorry.

He's been standing a while, apparently, because his knee is getting sore. "And I'm getting old," he mumbles, not without a smile, rubbing at his knee with his free hand. It doesn't particularly bother him, aging. Because Jean is there, aging too.

He's known Jean for so long Nino has the whole of him memorized. In his mind's eye, Nino can picture Jean perfectly, and his senses remember every detail about him: the light blue of his eyes, the quiet thoughtfulness of his voice, the silkiness of his hair, the toast-and-tobacco scent that clings to his skin and that Nino can taste when they kiss. But it's no replacement for the real person.

With a sigh, Nino leans against a pillar. Only thing to do is wait.

Wait he does, forty more minutes. More people are coming in through the doors. _This should be it_ , he thinks.

After all this time, his heart rate goes up.

He scans the crowd, brain working quickly in sorting people neatly into the 'not-Jean' category.

And then, a mop of sunny hair, partly obscured by someone in front.

_Move, dammit_ , Nino thinks.

The stranger veers left, and there Nino can see him. He's tired, eyes droopier than normal, and spots Nino. He pauses, blinking at him, as if he's not sure Nino is really there.

Grinning so wide it hurts, Nino waves. "Welcome home," he mouths, knowing the buzz of the airport and their distance would drown out his voice.

Jean speeds up to meet him. He almost crashes into Nino, but stops in time.

"What are you doing here?" Jean asks, smiling sleepily.

"Picking you up." Nino raises the bag in his hand. "And bringing you food."

"You're too good to me."

"The best things for the best person," Nino says, pulling in Jean for a hug that's tightly returned.

"I missed you," Jean mumbles against the crook of his neck.

Nino presses a kiss to Jean's temple. "I missed you, too."

Jean disentangles himself. Nino hands him the bag.

"I called it food, but really it's just strawberry shortcake."

"Anything I can eat is food, regardless of how filling it is." Jean takes it, pecking Nino's cheek. "Thank you."

"Want me to get your suitcase for you?" Nino asks, but he's already taking it.

"You're already taking it."

Nino laughs.

Jean starts walking. Nino follows.

"There's a plastic fork and napkins in the bag, so you can eat it now," Nino says. "I thought you might be snack-y."

"You know me too well," Jean says, digging into the bag to get his treat.

"How was the audit?"

Jean shrugs. "Fine, I guess. There was a computer mishap that kept me up late." He gives Nino a private smile. "Everything will always be normal compared to what happened four years ago."

Nino returns the small smile. They don't really need to say anything more.

They step out in the cool Badon night. Their cab is waiting for them, lights blinking intermittently. Nino opens the door for Jean, puts the suitcase in the trunk, and then slides next to Jean. They give the cab driver their address and they're off into the city's beckoning lights.

Nino doesn't turn on the overhead light; the light bathing them from the driver's compartment is enough. Their driver doesn't make conversation, which Nino is thankful for. Nino looks at Jean, who's putting away his cake and scooting as close to him as can be. He leans on Nino's shoulder.

Jean mumbles something, but he does it with his mouth to Nino's sweater, and he can't make out what it is.

"What was that?" he asks.

Jean shifts, looking up at him. "I said you're too good to me."

"You already said so."

"I can never say it enough." Jean loops his arm around Nino's, snuggling into him. "I'm gonna nap a little."

"Okay," Nino whispers, his heart doing that silly thing again. It will probably never go away.

When he feels something wet seep into his sweater, he starts. "Jean, are you okay?"

Jean opens an eye at him. There's a tear twinkling in it, which he wipes away. "Yes, I just yawned. Sorry for worrying you." He yawns again, covering it with a hand. "I'm so tired..."

Nino exhales quietly. He wraps an arm around Jean, and is immediately taken back to a moment like this oh-so-many years ago. 

* * *

Jean's eyes were baggy and wet with unshed tears. "Come in," he hoarsely told Nino.

It had taken Nino hours to overcome his own personal grief before being able to face Jean and Lotta. In front of a mirror he'd practiced his smile: kind and warm. There must not be a trace left of the truth.

So seeing Jean at the verge of breaking recreated the hastily mended cracks in Nino's own heart.

"Have you gotten any sleep?" Nino asked, lightly, even though he already knew the answer simply by looking at Jean's face.

"I've tried. It's been more important to me to make Lotta sleep. She's doing better, I think."

"Is she asleep right now?" Nino put a bag he'd brought with him on the kitchen table and diligently unpacked it. "I have stuff for her, too."

"She is, thankfully." Jean collapsed on a sofa. "And thank you, too, Nino. You're-" Jean's voice caught. "You're really helping me."

Nino's insides felt scooped out. No seventeen-year-old should be going through this. "Have you eaten?"

"Yeah, leftovers from the meat thing you made yesterday." Jean gave him a smile – worn as hell, but a smile. "Were you going to cook for us again so soon?"

"Yes. You need to eat."

"I know." Jean's voice dropped. "You don't know how much you coming to see us means to me."

Nino wasn't sure if he was meant to hear that. He pretended he didn't. He grabbed a pudding cup from the stuff he brought, a spoon from a drawer, sat next to Jean. "Here," he said. "Dessert."

"Thank you." Jean peeled the top off and stuck the spoon in the teensiest bit. He brought it to his mouth. "It's good," he muttered, but he could have just been saying it for the sake of saying something. Nino wouldn't blame him.

"Maybe tomorrow we can bake-"

Jean pressed his face against Nino's shoulder, and Nino felt something wet.

"Jean?" he said, in a voice that would not stir a feather.

Jean made no reply save for putting his entire weight against Nino, clinging to his arm. His sleeve soaked up more wetness.

Silently, slowly, Nino wrapped an arm around him. "It'll be okay," he said. To Jean, to himself. "It will be."

Jean cried, shoulders shuddering, without making a single sound. Nino let him; of course he did. Tears prickled the backs of his eyes. But he willed this heavy gut-wrenching away, not for the first time. He hurt, so damn much – from his own loss, from Jean's, from the pathetic tragedy that was not being able to share it all with him – but Jean could not know. This was about Jean and Lotta. Would always be.

Some minutes passed with the two of them like that.

Jean, eventually, found calm again. Nino felt him shift his head so his cheek rested against his arm.

"Nino," he said, the trace of tears in his tone.

"Yes?"

"Don't leave me, okay?"

Nino's hold on him tightened, as did his throat. "Never." 

* * *

Nino blinks himself out of the memory. He glances down at Jean, peacefully breathing. _Look at us now._ A pang of absolute, utter love surges through Nino. _I kept my promise, and more_.

Twenty minutes later, the cab pulls up to the apartment complex. Nino doesn't want to wake Jean. Luckily, Jean stirs himself up.

Nino pays; they shuffle out of the car, Nino taking the suitcase up at his own insistence. Thirty-odd floors up the elevator, a short walk, and they're home.

He turns to Jean, who closes the door behind them. "I'll put-"

Jean gently pushes him to the sofa. He falls on his back with an _oof_ and Jean climbs on top of him, burying his face on Nino's chest. Then he looks up, smiling.

"I'm home," Jean says, and Nino can feel the smile in their kiss, too.

He holds Jean's face with his left hand, thumb absently moving back and forth, back and forth. "You are."

Jean's own left hand moves to cup Nino's, and their gold rings clink quietly together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i originally did this for a friend but i like it a lot so here it goes to mark the second anniversary of acca's airing bc the punchline of this fic and the anime is they were married the WHOLE TIME


	39. it'll go well

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this isn't shippy but it's smth i always wanted to extrapolate on

The breeze through the open window sends the curtain fluttering, sends the notebook pages quickly flapping, sends the pencil skittering to the floor, sends Nino the chance he's been waiting for after twenty-five years.

He crouches to pick up the pencil. Stands back up. Looks at the prince for a moment, hoping he doesn't wear his awe so obviously. But he picks himself up, too, and speaks.

"I'm Nino," he says, handing the unknowing prince of the kingdom his pencil. "Nice to meet you, Jean."

His first words to him, said so casually. The pomp and circumstance that happens behind the scenes reduced to this. Nino is allowing himself to be wrapped in a lie that will last him for... forever, probably. His throat is somewhat dry.

The prince – Jean – blinks at him. He nods in acknowledgment and mumbles a thanks as he takes the pencil back, sets it in the dipped binding of his notebook, and pensively faces the window again with a hand on his cheek.

It's Nino's turn to blink. That wasn't how he was expecting this first meeting to go. As quick as it had started, it had ended.

He stifles a smile.  _Guess he's as reserved as his dad._

Obviously, it won't end here. Even if Jean wants it to, Nino's orders are to befriend him, to keep close to him. An infiltration. Nino is out of practice in talking to people younger than him, but he does have years of watching the prince to make up for it. He can get this conversation rekindled, regardless of his lack of choice.

He takes the seat in front of Jean and twists back to face him. "Is looking out of the window so interesting?"

"Yes," he answers, without moving.

Now Nino really does laugh – not very loudly, just a quiet laugh, more to himself – but this is what gets Jean to flit his eyes to him.

"What's funny about it?" Jean asks, not sounding offended, but genuinely curious.

"I was just thinking," Nino says, crossing his arms, "that I'm not very interested in what's happening out there, despite this being my first year at a physical school. But you are."

"I like to daydream, and looking outside is calming," Jean says, lowering his hand from his cheek. "But what do you mean by this being your first year at a physical school?"

"I'd been homeschooled up until now. I don't know anything about 'real' school, if you will." He's being truthful there.

The corner of Jean's lip quirks up. "Then you're probably going to get frustrated at all the sorts of classmates you'll run into."

"Probably." He offers him the warmest smile he can muster. "Help me out a little, okay?"

The other corner of Jean's lip turns up too. It's a small smile, but it's something. "I'll try. It was 'Nino,' right?"

"Yup. And I'm glad you agreed." He motions between the two desks. "Since I fall before you alphabetically, we're kinda stuck together as long as we're in the same class, anyway." He dips his head. "I'm in your hands," he says, meaning it flippantly, but it comes out with a tinge of seriousness.

"You should probably put your headphones away," Jean suggests when Nino picks his head up. "Some teachers are strict about no phones or whatever during class."

"Oh. Thanks." He shuffles them into his bag. Its contents make him smile: notebooks, loose-leaf paper, pens and pencils. Ten years later, he's really a student.

"Was that a camera?"

Nino turns his head up.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to pry," Jean says, running a hand through his hair. "It caught my eye when you opened your backpack."

"No, it's okay," Nino says, careful to keep his tone neutral. "It  _was_  a camera. I really like photography. I was hoping to join the school's club for it, actually."

Jean hums. "I'm kind of jealous you have a hobby you're that into. I don't know if I have something I really care about."

"There has to be something." As if Nino didn't know it already. But the charade continues. "Books, films, games?"

"I like reading and watching movies is fine, but I wouldn't join clubs for them."

"Sports?"

Jean huffs, and at that moment the bell rings. People shuffle to their seats, the teacher calls out a cheery greeting, and Nino realizes they've been chatting this whole time. Class has begun, but so has something larger than that.

"I'll get it over lunch," Nino whispers, before turning to the front.

But Jean taps him on the shoulder. "Food," he whispers back, sounding happy with himself for figuring it out. "I like food. Especially bread."

"Then you're the best person who can tell me what to buy for lunch. I'll hold you to that."

Jean smiles. "Okay."

Nino turns back around, pulling out a notebook and pen from his bag. He spins the pen idly between his fingers, only half-listening to the teacher talk.

So it begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is from a lyric in 'it's my life', the song playing during the fun ol reminiscin' times in ep 8
> 
> if u didn't know, nino's last name is.......ninox. it's so dumb but i still love him bc i am a dedicated bitch. i can't remember if that was mentioned in acca ps or if natsume ono said so at one of her drawing events but jpn twitter was losing their minds when it was revealed and that's how i know


	40. plastic crown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is also smth platonic i still wanted to write

"It's more suited to you," Nino says, and in a fluid motion puts the prom king's crown on Jean's head, sits down next to him on the bench, and takes a picture of his mild surprise.

Jean is still a moment, the distant bass of whatever music they're playing in the ballroom thumping in this secluded part of the hotel's grounds. The night seems to greedily absorb all the life in that party, leaving them here in the company of the trees in quiet contemplation.

Jean smiles, hand reaching up to fix the skewed crown on his head. "What makes you say that? You were always the popular one. That's why you won prom king in the first place."

Nino shrugs, but he's smiling too. "It's a matter of appearances, I think. You look more king-like."

"Huh." He folds his hands on his lap.

"Why did we even come?" Nino says, laying down on the bench. "We're still far from the crowd. As always."

Jean nudges him with his knee. "For the food, obviously. Want me to get some? It's been a while since we ate."

"Hmm. I think I could go for another slice of cake."

"But it was vanilla."

Nino effortlessly sits back up, grinning. "Hey, chocolate is my favorite, but I'm not dumb enough to ignore free cake. More so when it's delicious, too. There's perks to prom being held in fancy places like this."

Jean grins back. "You're right." He stands up. "I'll go get us cake."

"You don't want me to accompany you?" Nino puts a hand to his chest, feigning offense. "You wound me so."

"No, it's not that," Jean quickly says. "But if you go back, people might bother you." He briefly glances back to the party. "And I would think you don't want that."

"I was just teasing you," Nino says, laughing lightly. He puts his palms behind him, flat on the bench, and leans back. "You're right, I don't want to go back inside. Thank you."

"Sure," Jean says. He leaves for the food.

The noises get louder, the lights brighter. His fellow classmates, many of which he doesn't think he's ever seen the past three years, laugh and mingle and chat and dance. He gets a few funny looks, and then remembers he's wearing Nino's crown. He feels a blush coming on, and promptly gets the sweets to just as promptly leave.

He hands Nino his plate of cake and a fork. Then he sits down next to him and looks down at his own cake.

"What's up?" Nino asks. "Is the cake telepathically begging you for its life?"

Jean purses his lips and looks back up. "Are we going to stay friends?"

Nino stares at him. And breaks into a grin. "Yes. You're not getting rid of me so easily, Jean Otus."

Jean relaxes.

"Why was that on your mind?" Nino asks, concentrating to very carefully cut a piece of his cake.

"When I went inside, I didn't recognize a lot of people, even though we were in the same building, maybe even the same class, for years." He twiddles his fork. "And high school seems like nothing, in the long run. When we're thirty or whatever, this isn't gonna matter, even though right now it feels like it does. Most people drift apart after this." He turns his head to look at Nino, though he can't manage to meet his eyes too long. "But I don't want that to be the case for us."

Nino nibbles on his forkful of cake, seeming to think about what Jean said. "As long as you want me with you, that's where I'll be," he says in the end, sounding older than he is. "It's where I'd like to be, too."

Jean nods, plastic crown shifting a little. "Then," he says, smiling, "it's where you're staying."


	41. what follows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an alternative ending to ep 8

The moon traces its arc across the twinkling heavens as Nino spins back time with his tale spanning decades. And it's not just a tale, but a real past, etched into history books as much as the hearts of those who lived through it, that connects him to Jean.

Jean takes it in silence, every word seeping into him like the moonlight greedily drunk by Korore's canals. And word by revealed word, he starts to form his own thoughts on the matter. They begin not verbally but emotionally. The more Nino talks – and so detached, like he _wants_ there to be distance between them – the more Jean's insides are carved out, making his stomach drop and leaving his head a hollow cathedral where one thing reverberates in melancholy echo: _Nino has been there for me always and I wasn't there for him even once._

It continues to ring in his head, but when Nino calmly finishes by pointing out Jean cannot be king, he sounds it out, keeping his eyes on the floor while feeling Nino's cool gaze burn freezing holes on his skin.

He's hoping this is what it takes to bring back the Nino he knows. Because while what brought Nino to him may have been a careful construct, what they became is true and real and Jean will not let go of it. Not ever.

It doesn't bring Nino back. He impassively explains this is the life his father chose and that he decided to follow as well. A life that he'll still follow, until the king dies and no longer requires his service. A life Jean has to accept regardless of his feelings on it, so Nino says, walking away.

Then he stops to turn around. A ghost of the person Jean knows haunts him.

"I won't mess up again and get noticed, though," Nino lightly says, and with the tiny dry quirk to his lip, the tiny tired lines by his eyes, Jean's heart is so wrenched that it hurts to breathe, to sit still, to _know_ all this, to have been deaf and blind to all this.

Helplessly, he watches Nino leave. He glances aside, trying to process what he's heard, but the sound of Nino's fading footsteps and his own internal turmoil prevent it.

But maybe he shouldn't think anymore. Maybe he should _do_.

He's moving before he knows it, heart and legs speeding up to reach Nino, who'd disappeared around this corner and if he's not there then _what_ is he going to do- no, Nino's there, still walking, head down and hands in pockets and shoulders slouched. Jean keeps running, half-expecting Nino to turn around to see who it is, but he doesn't.

So he calls out his name.

"Nino!" Jean says, a little loud for the empty street at night, but it's not currently in him to be any quiet.

That does catch his attention. Nino turns, eyebrows drawn in confusion.

Jean stops right in front of him. He's somewhat out of breath, and his heart is fluttering in the back of his mouth. He takes deep even breaths through his nose, as his mouth is set in a thin line. His fists are curled loosely at his sides.

"Nino," he says again, with a slight hitch; he's not entirely composed yet, but it doesn't matter. "You're dumb."

Now Nino's eyebrows go up. He blinks at him.

"If you think this changes anything," Jean says, "then you're dumb."

"But-"

"No, no 'but's," Jean says, putting his palm flat on Nino's chest to silence him. He looks down at it, this physical connection, before meeting Nino's eyes again. "I told you: I don't care about what my blood is and why you came into my life. I care that you _are_ here." He lowers his hand. "Can you imagine what my life would have been like without you? I can't. I don't want to imagine it, either. And I especially don't want to find out now, after all these years of you by me. If you don't believe that, then you're dumb."

Nino seems lost, yet there is a glimmer of hope in the dark wells of his eyes. 

A chilly breeze blows by and makes Jean stumble a step forward. Nino grabs him by the elbows, steadying him. Where his voice and visage were cold, his hands are warm.

They still look at each other. The frost on Nino's irises cracks.

"You had your reasons for lying," Jean says. "You have nothing to be sorry for. If anything, I'm the one who's sorry."

Nino takes a sharp breath in. "What?" he asks, weakly. "Why?"

And Jean lets out a long, quiet stream of air as he wraps his arms around Nino, tilting his chin up to tuck it on Nino's shoulder. "I didn't know you were hurting because I didn't know you were living a lie," he says, glancing down. "I mean, I _couldn't_ know. But..." Putting his hands on Nino's shoulder blades, Jean pulls him in closer, damning the distance Nino had tried to maintain. His entire body is pressed against Nino, who's gone statue-still. "But I wish I'd known. You're really important to me, Nino, and your pain should never be yours alone. I'm sorry I couldn't be there for you." His voice has dropped to a whisper, in contrast to the thundering of his heart in his ears. "From now on, please let me hold you up as much as you do to me. Please."

His legs are starting to tremble from leaning his weight on the tips of his toes to reach Nino. But he braves it.

"Until you say something," Jean says, "I'm not moving."

He counts his heartbeats, barely contained by his chest and certainly softly bouncing off Nino's sweater.

When he gets to ten, he feels Nino shift. His arms hesitantly wind around the small of Jean's back. Being taller, he has to duck his head to fit against the nook of Jean's shoulder, and his downy hair tickles Jean's ear.

"I don't deserve you," he mumbles.

Jean's lip turns down. "Never say that."

"But-"

"I said no 'but's, Nino." This could be pushing it, but Jean is past caring. He slides a hand up to the nape of Nino's neck, leading his head down. "The world hasn't given you half of what you deserve. You made a choice that swore your life away, and you were prepared to do it forever. That's way too selfless. Not everyone would do that. With you telling me about your sacrifices, I may realize how lonely it's been to be you, but I will never really know because I didn't experience your life." He digs his chin deeper onto Nino. "The best I can do is promise I will be here for you; I _want_ to be here for you. I just need you to want it, too."

Two heartbeats.

"It'll take time to undo years' worth of deference," Jean adds, "but I have the rest of my life to help you. If you'll let me."

"Yeah," Nino croaks.

Jean absentmindedly runs his fingers through Nino's hair. "Are you crying?"

A sniff. "No."

Jean looks at the moon. It glows in a sideways smile matching his own.

"That was the last lie I'll tell you."

"Mm-hmm."

Nino's stuttered breathing punctuates the silence that falls. He further settles into Jean, grabbing a tight hold of him, his forced sense of duty thawed to who he really is. The uneven rise and fall of his chest pushes against Jean's. His tears fall and grow on Jean's back. But it's not uncomfortable. Far from it. It feels like home. Warm, safe home.

"I would have liked your dad," Jean says, pensive.

Nino chuckles, a quiet, wet thing that rumbles. "You would have."

Jean is younger, but as Nino lets him hold him, and as Jean in turn is held back, his soul, sharing the weight Nino has long carried, is centered with an age as old as the earth they firmly stand on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for ray, who wanted [this](https://66.media.tumblr.com/18a115506946bf9809a2c4ac4efc52ae/tumblr_plyy5dL2ci1sdji64o1_400.png)


	42. the heart of the matter

To pass the time as he waits for Jean, Nino is on his phone looking up different chocolates, committing to memory those that are significantly marked down and worth buying.

 _If there's one upside to this stupid holiday_ , he thinks, _it's cheap chocolate_.

He turns his head up occasionally to see if Jean has walked out of ACCA's building. It isn't as if Jean wouldn't see Nino if he didn't keep an eye out. It's that Nino doesn't want to miss him.

No luck so far. While he'd wait as long as it took for Jean to be ready, today they have a dinner reservation, and Nino would like for him to get out of work on time so they can get to the restaurant earlier and avoid the rush. His mouth twists to the side, thinking about all the obnoxious couples that are going to go to this normally quiet restaurant on this _stupid_ holiday, enough that he'd had to call ahead to make sure they even had a spot once he'd realized his and Jean's get-together fell on Valentine's Day.

His stomach drops from under him. _I'm really gonna need that chocolate._

He hears the doors slide open, so he looks up. It actually is Jean, who spots him and briskly walks over with a smile.

Now Nino's insides do little flips, but it's a feeling he's used to. He smiles back, easily.

"How was work?" he asks.

"Fine, I guess," Jean answers, "but there were hearts everywhere. Red and pink decor everywhere to make your head hurt. That was annoying."

Nino chuckles. "I'm sure."

"I've been waiting all day for this. Let's go," Jean says, and isn't he standing a little closer to Nino than usual?

Nino faces forward. "Right."

As they start walking, he becomes certain Jean has decreased the distance he keeps from Nino. Their arms brush – and, if Nino times it right, their hands – something that rarely ever happens. Yet it's happened continuously since they left Jean's work. The fabric of Jean's coat sleeve against his turtleneck's whispers softly, rhythmically, and Nino does not want to cease hearing it. _Swish-swish-swish_ it goes, all the way until they reach the restaurant. Nino finds himself missing it.

He opens the door for Jean, and what happens next is even more unusual: he smiles, lowers his eyes, and tucks an already-neat strand of his hair away before walking in.

Nino stands there for a moment, confused thoughts matched with the skip to his heart.

 _I imagined it_ , he decides, and goes in after Jean.

The restaurant has never been this crowded, this abuzz with other conversations. Nor has the air ever been this heavy with people obviously in love. Nino avoids looking at Jean.

They're shown to their table, thankfully in a corner; the noise is somewhat muffled here. He hears Jean pull out his chair and then presumably sitting on it; Nino still avoids looking at him, but at least now he has an excuse, as he orders a pint of beer for himself while Jean asks for wine. But once the waiter leaves, it's just him and Jean.

He bites the tip of his tongue, imperceptibly, and then turns to see Jean.

Jean is always the most breathtaking person in the room, but the way the late afternoon sunlight from the window beside them falls on him, amber melting on his gold hair, tiny strands curled at the top of his head surrounded by a halo, skin glowing and blue irises overtaking his constricted pupils – Nino _actually_ forgets how to breathe.

"What?" Jean asks, the corner of his mouth curling sweetly up, and Nino's chest hurts.

He takes a manual breath in. "Nothing," he mumbles. Manual breath out. He's lived like this for years. What's one more day?

"I hope this reservation wasn't too much trouble," Jean says, still smiling, though he glances aside. Nino looks where he's looking, but it's hard to pinpoint what it is exactly. From this angle, it seems as if it is the man and woman at the table on the opposite side of the room. One of the woman's hand flits about in excited chatter. The other is on the table, linked with the man's, who listens, absorbed.

Nino turns back so quickly his head spins. "It wasn't," he says, feeling his temples throb. "But I didn't think this place was that popular."

"Right? It's barely half-full when we stop by."

"If you like, we can go elsewh-"

Jean's hand is on his. _Jean's hand is on his_. It had come as quick as lightning, and electrifies Nino just as much.

"Don't worry," Jean says, a little demure; his eyes search Nino's, and it makes Nino dizzier than he already is. "This was a good choice."

"Alright," Nino says, out of habit more than anything. _Why is Jean acting so different today?_ He glances at their hands again. He's never seen anything more perfect. But as suddenly as Jean had done this, he takes his hand away.

Nino steals a look at his face. He pauses. _Is_ _J_ _e_ _an_ _blushing?_

Few things get Jean red-faced. Alcohol was the usual culprit, but their drinks have yet to be delivered. Pretty women were another suspect.

But it's just them two.

 _Well_ , Nino thinks, curling his hand on the side of his neck, _it is a little warm inside, I think_.

The waiter comes back with their drinks (and Nino takes a thankful, cold gulp of his), and leaves with their usual food orders.

"The same thing to eat as always?" Jean teases him.

"You're not one to talk," Nino counters, with a smile of his own.

"Some things are better when they're constant. Some things are better when they change."

"Are you a philosopher now?" Nino says, and gets a halfhearted kick in the foot for it. He doesn't really know why he'd said it; it had just slipped out of him, perhaps as a weak attempt to cover up the uncertain beating of his heart, the uncertain swirling of his thoughts.

"You know what I meant," Jean says, smiling as he rests his cheek on his hand.

 _I really don't_ , Nino thinks, holding this back.

When they get their food, the scene is more familiar. There's not much time for this strange ambiguousness when eating, and they fall back on their usual pattern of occasional comfortable chatter while enjoying good food. The tension is only beginning to melt from Nino's muscles when Jean asks if he can have a bite of Nino's dish.

They do this sometimes. But Jean can't quite meet Nino's eyes, and Nino's stomach itself lurches a bit.

 _I'm overthinking_. "Sure," Nino says. He cuts a small piece, sticks his fork through it, and offers it to Jean.

What neither of them has ever done, though, is to eat the offered food directly; they always take it with their own forks. But it's exactly what Jean does now, quickly and with eyes squeezed shut.

Nino doesn't even have the words to comprehend this. He stares at Jean, unthinking.

"I should get that next time," Jean says, voice muffled behind the napkin he uses to dab at his mouth.

Nino lowers his fork, watching how the light glitters off its tines.

"Nino?"

He blinks and turns his head up.

Jean's head is tilted just so, and he eyes Nino with worry. "Was that too much? Sorry..."

"It's fine," he says, and it isn't a lie. It's _him_ who's not fine.

"Are you sure? You've been a little... I don't know, off, today." He folds his hands on his lap, glancing down. "If you're not comfortable with this so soon, I understand."

 _'Comfortable with this so soon'?_ He furrows his brows. "But this really isn't any different than when we normally get together. And I've known you forever. I don't think there's such a thing as 'so soon' for us." He grabs another forkful of food, for him now. "It's fine. Really." He eats it, and it tastes somehow better.

Jean relaxes. "Oh. Okay. I've been worried about this, you know." He gives a quiet laugh. "I feel dumb saying that out loud. You're right, this really isn't much different, huh? It's probably been a long time coming, if anything."

"We just had dinner together last week, though."

Jean's soft smile turns to a smirk and he lightly kicks Nino under the table again.

Nino doesn't find anything witty about what he's said – it was a statement of a fact – which adds to his confusion. But he doesn't linger on it long. Whatever has Jean like this, it's rare and wonderful.

 _Almost like he's flirting_ , Nino thinks, again with that flip of his stomach. Which is a dumb hope. But maybe the spirit of Valentine's Day had somehow gotten to Jean. Certainly, he didn't complain about the couples at the restaurant. Not so much as a snide comment, even after they leave and no one else can hear.

Jean walks close to Nino again. Closer, actually, than in their walk to the restaurant; Jean is warm and past the fabric of their sleeves it seeps into Nino, making his senses brighter. Jean _had_ drunk wine. The half-glass hadn't been enough to make him drunk, but Nino supposes it could have him somewhat tipsy.

"You can hold on to me if you want," he says.

Despite the fading light from the sunset, Jean brightens, and the pink of his cheeks is highlighted. "Okay," he says, and puts his hand on the crook of Nino's arm.

There is going to be a hand-shaped burn mark on Nino's skin when he gets home, he's sure. But it's worth it. He takes its shape, as it is on his arm and as it was on his hand earlier, and commits it to memory, wondering what it would be like to hold it.

The subway ride home, with its sharp turns and stops, makes Jean's hold on him tighten a little. The rail's motions make them sway counter to it, Jean more so, and when he bumps into Nino they share small smiles, Jean's face still tinged pink.

 _I don't want today to end_ , Nino thinks as they come up aboveground, their footsteps echoing in unison on the cement steps.

"I'll walk you home," he so says, eyes on the street ahead.

"Please do," he hears Jean say with what is certainly a smile.

It's not a long walk to Jean's building either. To get if a few more minutes with Jean holding on to his arm like this, Nino walks leisurely, hoping Jean doesn't question the pace.

It doesn't happen. Instead, Jean's other hand loops through Nino's arm so that Jean is veritably clinging to him. He even leans on Nino. Just a little. But he's _leaning_ on him, with a faint smile.

 _He drank more wine than I thought_ , Nino reasons, skin thinning right where his heart has been rapidly beating all of today.

As slow as they walk, they reach Jean's apartment too soon. Jean lets go of Nino and stands in front of him, cupping his elbows, eyes on the floor. Then he looks up, and his smile is so tender, his eyes so warm despite their blue color, that Nino wishes he had his camera to capture the way Jean looks at him now forever. People walk past, cars drive by, the sun makes its gradual descent; the city mumbles in the periphery. But for Nino, there is just Jean.

"So," Jean says, looking up. "Sorry I was in my uniform today, but you did ask me out after work."

Nino has to swallow to get his voice working. "It's not as if that hasn't happened before."

"I mean, I know, but I wish I could have dressed nicer for today."

"There's always next time."

Jean smiles and rises to the tips of his toes, then comes back down, the smile remaining. "Yeah. Next time." He takes a step toward Nino, and then another, and by now they're standing so close Nino can count each and every one of Jean's eyelashes, which are fluttering as he closes his eyes and leans in and places a chaste kiss at the corner of Nino's mouth.

Nino's mind blanks. Completely. His sense of self disappears as swift as fog under sunlight. It's like he is watching this occur incorporeally, as a free-floating consciousness.

"Next time," he hears Jean say from far away, "let me pick the date spot."

And as swiftly as he'd forgotten who he was, Nino snaps back to himself.

" _Date_?" he says, articulating this single syllable with such sharpness and incredulity Jean is taken aback.

"What do you mean? Did you not- was this _not_ a date?"

The tip of Nino's tongue presses hard against the back of his teeth, the word 'date' still lingering on his lips. He can't form any other words.

Jean buries his face in his hands. "Oh my god. I'm so sorry, Nino. I thought you- I thought this was a date. Oh my god, I _kissed_ you." He splays his fingers so his eyes peek through – and unintentionally, his vivid blush. "That was- I'm- I'm really, really sorry. I shouldn't have done that. I misread everything..."

With this, it becomes clear to Nino why Jean had been acting different all day. All the odd things he'd brushed aside had a purpose: Jean thought they were being romantic, too.

"You thought I asked you out because it's Valentine's Day," he weakly says, the seed of a thought spilled aloud.

Jean fully covers his face again.

"But we usually go out for food after you work..."

Jean's hands move aside to his cheeks. He's positively red. "But when you asked me, you sounded really embarrassed!"

Nino's face is starting to burn as well, particularly at the very spot where Jean's lips had brushed his. "Because it's Valentine's Day! I'd forgotten about it and had to call ahead to make sure we had a spot-! Wait." His own fluster abates as if snuffed out. "Wait, you thought I asked you out. You were happy about this."

Jean stubbornly turns to the side, tightly crossing his arms. "Just forget about it, okay?"

His pulse quickens. "Jean, you _like_ me?"

"I said forget about it."

Nino's heart is so agitated it's about to quiver out of his mouth. "How could I forget about it when I've liked you for _years_?"

Jean blinks. Faces him again. Careful hope glimmers in him as he uncrosses his arms. "You-"

"I didn't realize when I asked if you wanted to get dinner today that it sounded like a date to you," Nino says, "but I'm not bothered by your misunderstanding, if that's what you're thinking. God, it's far from it." He smiles. "You like me back. You want to date me as much as I've wanted to date you." He puts a hand to his forehead. "I can't believe this. And it took a misunderstanding to help us realize this."

"I never said I was good at relationships," Jean mumbles, but not without a small smile.

"Me either."

"Yes, that's become obvious."

They share a quiet laugh.

"I told Lotta you'd asked me out," Jean sheepishly admits once their laughs have subsided, "but let's not tell her the truth."

"Never," Nino agrees. "She'd laugh to death. Or kill us."

"I think both."

Nino grins. "For the next date," he says, reaching for Jean's hand, holding it lightly, "I think you should pick where we eat, like you suggested. It's what's fair. And it's an apology for not picking up on things quicker. I thought I was losing my mind, the way you were acting."

"A date?" Jean says, with a quirk of his lip that's one of the many, many things Nino has fallen for.

"Yes."

"And you're aware of it?"

Nino chuckles. "Yeah. Are you?"

"Mm-hmm." He links his fingers through Nino's. "But, you know, you should probably kiss me. Just to be sure I understand your intentions."

He doesn't need to say that twice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had 2 tests and a quiz this wk and still found time to write this for valentine's day. that's the power of ninojean


	43. that which is (un)said

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rated t

A shrill, rhythmic beeping cuts through Jean's dream and drags him to the waking world against his will. Disoriented, he sits up, shutting off the alarm. His mind drifts into consciousness, sorting through the haze of what wasn't real and what is. The thousands of unread texts sending his phone in a frenzy: not real, as the phone lies still on the bedside bureau. The audit in Rokkusu: real; it's the reason he's on this strange bed with rosy light seeping through the bottom of the closed curtains. Knowing Nino also had a trip to Rokkusu: real, though he doesn't have proof for that; it simply feels that way. Suggesting they share a hotel room: a dream. He thinks. Did he end up asking? It had certainly lingered at the back of his mind.

He becomes aware of a shape to his right and turns to see another bed, a person's outline beneath the covers.

Jean rubs his eyes, thinking maybe this is a remnant of his dream.

It's not. Nino is really there.

It comes to him in a rush that would have swept him off-balance had he not been sitting. When they'd both found out they had a respective job trip to the same place, they'd shared a laugh about it over their usual drinks. They couldn't stray far from each other, it seemed, regardless of that under their control. Something of an awkward silence had settled, and they couldn't quite make eye contact. To fill that gap, Jean, aided by the alcohol in his blood, had said maybe they could save money and get a room together. Nino had just looked and looked at him so Jean's tongue had stumbled when adding that they'd be different beds, yes, of course. And then Nino had kept repeating himself – _Are you sure? Are you sure?_ – as if this was a commitment that required sober thinking or a trust they didn't have. _I'm sure_ , Jean had replied, because their trust was already as great as it could be, greater than any other, and it was just a hotel room anyway. _I'm sure_ , he'd said again, the coldness of his sip of beer mixing funnily with the warmth at his chest.

Three minutes have passed with Jean like this, sitting on the bed, receding darkness and advancing time uncaring to come to a pause during his reverie. He quickly stands, and gets ready as silently as he can.

When he's about to walk out from the bathroom, dressed, Nino is awake, clicking away at his laptop. He'd opened the curtains, as Rokkusu's pink-and-gold morning illuminates the room – and him. His hair is messy from sleep, more than it normally is, and the sun shimmers on these wayward tufts, on his exposed skin. He looks up and gives Jean a smile as soft as the sunrise.

"Morning," he says.

Jean finds the will to move from the bathroom door. He swallows, lessening the dryness in his throat. "Good morning." He busies himself by fixing his tie in front of the mirror, trying not to flit his eyes too much at Nino's shirtless direction. "Did I wake you up?"

Nino laughs quietly. "Yeah, but don't worry about it. I'm a light sleeper."

"I know," Jean replies, without thinking. He winces a little. But he does know; all those times Nino has slept on the couch after carrying his drunk self home are his proof. Saying it out loud is something else.

Nino seems to think nothing of it. He asks, "What time's your audit?"

"Eight-thirty."

"You getting breakfast beforehand?"

"Yeah, down at the restaurant, but just something quick."

A few heartbeats pass, and what Jean had hoped would be continued with a _Wait for me_ goes unsaid. The end of Jean's sentence had lilted in the way unfinished conversations go. He picks nonexistent lint off his pants. "Do you want me to bring you anything?"

"No, I'm good. Thank you, though." Nino still types on his laptop. "I'm not hungry, and my thing's not until night, anyway."

While Jean has an audit, Nino had taken an astrophotography job here under the open skies of Rokkusu. Despite the trip and room together, they won't be seeing much of each other.

Jean vaguely nods. He heads downstairs for a breakfast on his lonesome. It's never something that bothers him, but this time around, the emptiness in the seat in front of him takes an ugly shape.

He's just starting to sink into what will follow soon – thinking about what he'll inspect based on last time's audit, considering the order of locations he'll visit – when that emptiness squeaks with a chair pulled out then pushed in. He turns his head up from his newspaper.

"I think I'd actually be fine with a coffee right now," Nino, now dressed, says as he crosses his arms on the table, lip quirked up.

The little calm Jean had regained during his time alone leaves him as he breathes out, and in its place he breathes in a swarm of butterflies. But he still smiles. When Nino's around, he can't _not_ smile.

"What time are you coming back?" Nino asks him when he gets his coffee. The willowy steam it gives off forms the thinnest veil between them.

"Five, I'm hoping."

Nino quietly drinks his coffee. When he sets his drink down, Jean thinks there is just the slightest downward turn to his mouth. "That's around when I leave. I'm coming back at something terrible like midnight." His hands curl around the paper cup's sleeve. "This is it for now, huh?"

So Nino had thought of their lack of face-time, too. That makes Jean want to smile, but that they won't see each other until the next morning makes him want to frown. He purses his lips so neither happen. "Yeah," he says, as neutrally as he can. A thought comes to him. "Where's the place you're shooting? Could we have lunch before you leave?"

"It's to the north. It's not close to any ACCA branch; I checked."

He'd checked.

"But this is a one-day thing for me." Nino smiles. "Lunch tomorrow will work."

Jean puts his hand on his cheek and half-obscures his mouth. "Tomorrow..." he mumbles.

"Is that not going to work for you?" Nino asks, shifting in his seat.

"No, it's fine," Jean says, removing his hand. "It's just..." He glances aside as if he'll find the words he wants there. "I don't know."

Nino's low chuckle makes Jean look to him.

"For me, it's a little odd, I guess, because we normally got food when you were auditing a district that I followed you to." Nino draws his coffee cup closer to him and seems to find great interest in it. "But it's not like that anymore. I really am here by chance, and we can't even take advantage of it."

"That's not true," Jean says, quicker than he intended. Immediately, he feels heat rise to his head.

"What do you mean?"

Jean preoccupies himself with making his shirt collar flat. "We're in the same hotel by choice." _And_ _in_ _the same room_.

Nino's reply is a small smile. "I know, but I feel like we could be doing more than that." He pauses then takes a hasty drink of his coffee – maybe too hasty, as he winces. "Okay, how about we meet for breakfast, lunch, and dinner tomorrow to make up for me being away today?"

"Yes," Jean says, but once again thinking that was too immediate, he adds, "but you don't need to make up for anything. I like spending time with you. I know it can't always happen, so when it does, I'm really happy."

That was not what he should have added, but it's out there now. He consciously keeps his face still as he brings a forkful of eggs to his mouth, remembering he should probably eat.

Nino's enigmatic smile hasn't changed. "We can't really quit each other, huh?"

Jean isn't sure what to say to that, but he doesn't need to reply, as Nino stands up, chair squeaking on the wooden floor. He hasn't even said a proper goodbye yet, and Jean thinks he should; they won't see each other until the following morning, and they're friends, and friends do this small kind of pleasantry all the time, and they're no exception, and Nino is lingering, actually, next to Jean's chair.

Nino looks down at him.

Jean looks up at him.

Sometimes there's this thing, nameless and tight between them.

"I-" Nino starts. Closes his mouth. Tries again. "Bye for now," he says. He puts his weight on his forward-facing foot as if to resume walking, but then shifts it back. He smiles. "Your collar is crooked."

Jean blinks down at it. It is indeed. And he thought he'd fixed it.

"Here, let me," Nino says, and he bends over, the soft ends of his hair tickling Jean's forehead as he smooths the collar down. Though he'd thrown on clothes, he hadn't showered yet; the distinct smell of sleep, and that which makes Nino himself, still cling to him. But it's not a bad smell. It makes Jean a little drowsy, a little fluttery.

"There you go." Nino straightens. "Now everyone in Rokkusu's branches will be impressed by your looks."

"It's my normal uniform," Jean says, despite the rise of color to his cheeks.

"Well," Nino says, lightly flicking Jean's head, "see you."

He leaves.

The unsteadiness inside Jean doesn't.

 _I need to stop getting distracted. I have a job to do_. He finishes the rest of his breakfast without tasting it much at all, then waits numbly for whoever it is in Rokkusu’s branch – he doesn’t remember who's stationed here and cannot be currently bothered to – that will pick him up.

* * *

This is what Jean hears them whisper, what he sees in their questioning sideways glances: _he seems distracted, he keeps looking at the clock, he’s more reticent than usual_.

This is what Jean mentally answers: _I am, I don’t want to be here, I want to talk to someone who’s not here_.

At times, he’ll privately reprimand himself. He’s a professional; he should act as such. And then he’ll promptly ignore his own advice and look forlornly at the time not five minutes after having previously done so.

“Sir,” a brave soul eventually asks, “you seem anxious. Is there something you’re doing right after your audit?”

Jean’s eyes, skimming through data on a computer screen, unfocus. The screen blurs. The text is meaningless. The empty spaces between words and numbers stand out at him, blindingly white.

He hums noncommittally.

“Maybe we could break for lunch,” someone suggests, noting the atmosphere.

“What time is it?” Jean asks, hoping it's later than it feels.

“Bit past three.”

“Let's eat,” Jean says, and that's that.

The branch members choose the locale, a place close by. The food is good, yet Jean doesn't quite anchor himself to the present. The others’ conversation muddles in his ears, background to his wishful thinking of being home. Well. Not home. The hotel. Where Nino is.

He fiddles with a straw wrapper. _Wherever Nino is… that's home_.

They leave the restaurant at four. Something in Jean's gut tightens, suddenly aware that time, as much as it had sluggishly crawled on earlier, has hurled itself at him at once. It is one hour until Nino heads off for his job. Then over twelve hours before they are both awake to see each other.

His gut tightens even more, impossibly so, wringing his other organs with its sickening contraction.

 _I can’t go that long without seeing him_.

Especially because forces grander than they have brought them to the same district at the same time. How could Jean let that slip by?

 _I’ll wrap up at four-thirty_ , he decides, pulse picking up speed as his thoughts get ahead of himself. _That way, I should be able to get the hotel before five and see Nino before he leaves_.

And do what, exactly?

Even he doesn’t know. But he does know that at four-thirty, he is done. Whatever is unfinished can be continued tomorrow. Good progress had been made, anyway. Work will be fine. If he doesn’t leave then, it’s him who won’t be fine.

His footsteps are lighter, his pace quicker. He can almost hear the change in what is whispered, the questions as to his freshened demeanor.

Twenty minutes left. Fifteen. Ten. Five.

It's four-thirty.

“I’m stopping here for today,” Jean says. “There’s not much left to look at, but I’ll do it tomorrow.”

“That’s fine. Do you need a ride back?”

Jean nods, afraid that if he speaks, his manic heart, making its way up his throat, will fall out of his mouth. 

* * *

Jean doesn't want to ask if the car can be made to go any faster; he's being done a kindness with this free ride back to his hotel, and the roads have their laws. But with each second that ticks by his heart rate increases, one more beat per second, and soon his frenzied heart will break his rib cage from too much force. He focuses all his nervous energy on his foot, where it can't be seen tapping impatiently. The cushy floor mat absorbs its sound.

When he doesn't check the time on his phone, it seems to speed by; when he keeps his eye on it, it stubbornly refuses to change, until the meaning of a minute is nothing. His lip turns down and he presses his head against the window, the car's vibrations rumbling his vision, but not his thoughts.

 _I have to see Nino before he leaves_ , he thinks. _I have to see Nino before he leaves. I have to see Nino before he leaves_.

It isn't as if they'll be apart for long. Nino would be there in the morning regardless; there is no rush. Though the urgency swilling from the top of his head all the way to his toes says otherwise. Maybe he feels that way because this is something new, this sharing of a room despite different plans in the same district. Or maybe it's because the squeezing of Jean's heart and lungs when Nino is around is an enjoyable kind of pain he stupidly seeks out, even now. Because maybe every moment they spend together is a moment Jean will always remember. And maybe he wants as much of his life to be stitched from these memories with Nino.

He's in love with him. Definitely.

"This is your hotel, right?"

Jean snaps his head up, recognizes the hotel's facade, and right away stumbles out of the car with a hurried, "Yes, thank you, have a good day."

Inside the hotel, someone is just stepping out of the elevator, the doors sliding close. Jean picks up his step and makes it just in time to sneak through the shrinking gap and press the button for the second floor. He checks the time on his phone: 4:50 pm. Basically five.

 _Please still be there, Nino_.

A ding, and the doors open, Jean briskly walking to their room around the corner, shuffling with the door key, opening the door, and seeing the back of Nino's figure out in the balcony.

His breath leaves him in a quiet huff of relief. Pushing his back against the door closes it. He approaches the sliding glass door leading to the balcony, opening it carefully, and steps into the cooling afternoon – cooling, but still warm from a day's worth of sunlight.

The warmth spreading in his chest, though, is entirely different. He can hear the shutter on Nino's camera, who gradually shifts to the right, taking pictures of the distant orange landscape slice by slice.

Jean takes out a cigarette from his case, sets it between his lips, and fidgets with the lighter. He strikes it on. Off. On. Off.

"Are you going to say anything?"

Jean looks up. Nino has half-turned to him, smiling. His sunglasses are pushed against the top of his head, and tufts of his hair point in different directions.

Jean clicks the lighter back on and raises it to his cigarette. He takes in the smoke. Takes in Nino. He lets out the smoke. He doesn't let out the flame in his heart.

"I didn't really know what to say," he admits, walking up to the railing, next to Nino – close, but not too close; friends have a distance to keep. He caught Nino before he left for the night. Now that he's here, he isn't sure what's next. But even nothing happening is fine with him. As long as Nino's there.

"'Hello' would have been fine." He closes an eye and covers his face with the camera, aimed at Jean.

Jean smiles, and not for the camera. "That's too short."

"You've always been a man of few words."

He leans on the railing and glances down at the street. "It's different with you," he says, though the cigarette in his mouth and the timidness with which he says it leave it a mumbled mess.

"Hmm?"

"Nothing."

"No, you said something."

Jean twists his lips back and forth, stuck between a lie he doesn't want to tell and a truth he doesn't want to repeat.

"Okay," Nino says, with what sounds like a fond sigh, "you said nothing."

Jean holds on to that fond sigh, and it fills him up more than the cigarette smoke does. He takes out the cigarette and holds it delicately between his fingers. "What are you doing out here?" he asks.

Nino holds the camera in front of him. "Taking a few practice shots before the real thing."

"But you're already really good at photography."

He'd said it because he honestly believed it, but the smile Nino replies with is a lovely unintended consequence. "The camera settings for astrophotography are a little different from what I normally do. I wanted to see how it looked."

"All to capture how pretty the stars are?"

"Well," Nino says, eyes falling to his camera in his hands, "I've seen prettier things." He lets the camera dangle off his neck so he can dig up his phone. "I should be going." He pockets his phone. "This time, it's gonna be me trying not to wake you when I'm back. I'm pretty good at staying quiet, but sorry in advance if I don't."

"You said you'd be back around midnight, right?" He frames it like a question so it is less obvious he has this perfectly remembered.

"Yeah."

Jean taps ash off his cigarette, watching it fall like snow. "Would... you be up for drinks after?" He looks up, and his words clumsily come out. "It's later than we're usually out, but not too late. It can be brief. Just one drink is fine."

Nino rests his elbow on the railing, loosely curls his hand, and puts his cheek against it. He smiles. "I don't need convincing to spend time with you."

Something thick is suspended silently between them. Jean is afraid to move, to breathe in; this thickness would stick to his skin and lungs. Nino, also motionless, might be thinking the same. Jean's eyes are on Nino's just as Nino's are on his.

Jean bites the inside of his lip at the same time Nino clears his throat. The air is breathable again. Warm and clear.

"So. Midnight. We'll drink then," Nino says.

A heap of ash collapses from Jean's cigarette on its own. "Yes."

Nino puts his sunglasses on, but its imprints on his hair remain.

"Your hair."

"What about it?"

"It got a little mussed." He stubs out the cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, takes the three steps he needs to be in front of Nino, and weaves the fingers from his free hand through Nino's hair. It's as downy as feathers.

Nino is quiet as he lets Jean smooth down his hair. Jean determinedly stares at Nino's hair, but he can feel Nino's gaze on him as hotly as the sun.

"You're good." He pulls his hand away, but he doesn't step back.

"Thank you," Nino says after a pause. He glances down at Jean's cigarette. "I can throw that away for you." Without waiting for a response, he reaches for it, hand brushing Jean's, lingering there for the tiniest moment before plucking the cigarette from his loosened fingers.

Nino's hand may be gone, but its shape ghosts over Jean's, tingling. Jean wants to say something but finds his throat is dryer than the sun-bleached rocks in the horizon.

It's Nino who finishes this conversation with a barely audible, "See you."

Jean watches him go. The door closes, and despite being out on a balcony, Jean feels trapped. He looks at his hands: first the one that had touched Nino's hair, then the one Nino had so very briefly held.

He brings that one to his lips. "See you," he mumbles against it.

He goes back in the room, shutting out Rokkusu's nearing sunset with the curtains. There is nothing else for him to do today, which ordinarily isn't bothersome at all, but restlessness has him in its grip.

What to do until Nino comes back? Hell, what does he usually do when Nino _isn't_ there?

The obvious answer is smoke or drink or eat alone. But he's just smoked and is still full from lunch. And he doesn't want to drink when they've promised to do so together later.

 _I guess I'll change and then watch TV_. Better than calling it a day and sleeping so soon.

Once in comfortable clothing, he searches for the remote control and spots it on Nino's bed. Jean walks up to the bed. Bends to take the remote. Stays bent. Has a thought appear inside his pounding head.

He sits on the edge of the bed, one leg folded beneath him and one leg dangling. He turns on the TV and the channel playing is entirely dedicated to food.

His lip quirks up. _That's very like Nino_.

He doesn't have any particular problem watching this and leaves the channel be, tossing the remote lightly to the side. But if he's going to be watching TV until he's tired, he should be comfortable. He swings both of his legs onto the bed, scooting closer to the middle. Nino hadn't bothered to make it, and had apparently turned away housekeeping, as the bedsheets are wrinkled near the foot of the bed, cool on Jean's feet. He wriggles his toes beneath them and pulls them up to his lap.

He could be more comfortable yet.

He twists around. Two pillows lie flat behind him. He grabs one, fast, like it would have scurried off otherwise, and he hugs it to his chest. Part of it presses against his chin and tickles his nose.

 _It still smells like him_ , Jean realizes, bringing the pillow closer without realizing. If he closed his eyes, it'd be somewhat like hugging Nino himself.

He closes his eyes.

The pillow is too squishy, too pliable under his weight; Nino is firm and steady and holds Jean up.

He opens his eyes back up, ears hot, and fluffs this pillow and the other against the headboard. He lays back against them, exhaling sharply at his misbehavior.

 _I should go to my own bed_ , he thinks, eyeing it. _This isn't appropriate of me to do_.

He doesn't move.

He leans his head further back, the warmth in his ears growing to his cheeks.

Shoes shuffle outside the door, and Jean immediately sits up, halfway bolting out of Nino's bed, but then the sounds pass. When it is fully quiet, he exhales shakily and sinks back on the bed. It had been someone else walking past.

Actually. If it _had_ been Nino, and Jean hadn't gotten up on time, what would Nino have done?

Jean thinks about it. _He would have just let me stay here_. Jean can picture it: Nino coming in, a little tired, eyes landing on Jean. A quiet what-do-I-do-with-you laugh. Then he'd take Jean's bed.

What Jean doesn't know is if this would be an acquiescent act, precedented by a lifetime of upholding him, or if it would be... something else. A something that has been simmering for months now. Maybe for far more, if Jean considers how Nino has long treated him in the same manner Jean thinks of him. Sometimes, Jean thinks that something is really there, that he's not wishfully imagining the softness to Nino's smiles or the stolen glances or the small touches. Sometimes the air gets hot and heavy – like earlier – and neither can speak – like earlier. But is it born out of the present situation, made awkward because they both allow it to? Or does it have a foundation, one neither of them has the courage to acknowledge?

He covers his face with his hands. Puts them down. Takes in a deliberately slow breath, and then inhales some more, and a bit more. He exhales in even, paused intervals. Calmness regained.

 _It doesn't matter_ , he lies to himself, getting up from the bed to sit on an armchair.

Having to repeatedly put aside conflicting thoughts that come unwanted, he's not very focused on the television. Eventually, his inner turmoil ceases, the drone of the TV chef explaining the recipe making it difficult to keep his eyes open, much less overthink what he and Nino are.

His blinking slows and slows and _slows_ and comes to a stop.

Something clicks, carefully. Soled whispers on carpet, the pressure of someone else in the room, the setting down of objects. A pause, with only the murmur of the television to fill it, and then that ceases. A quiet laugh.

Jean shifts, closed eyes twitching at how lifelike this dream is.

And suddenly he's being scooped up.

This wakes him.

He blinks, eyes adjusting after sleep. Darkness has enveloped the room save for the lamp he'd left on before falling asleep, but even in absolute darkness he'd know this is Nino carrying him. Nino. Carrying him.

This _really_ wakes him.

He puts his hand against Nino's chest, surprising them both.

"Sorry," Nino says. "I guess I woke you up after all."

They'd made it as far as the side of Jean's bed. This is where the single light in the room is. It falls, smooth and amber, on half of Nino's face. He's giving Jean one of _those_ smiles, the ones that reach his eyes and Jean's heart.

"I thought you'd be more comfortable in your actual bed," Nino continues, gently letting Jean down.

As soon as Jean's back touches the bed, his hand on Nino's shirt bunches it with enough speed and force it tugs him down, just a hand's width away from Jean's face. At this angle, there is less light, and Nino's pupils rightfully widen. Though that doesn't explain the way he looks at Jean.

Jean swallows back every bitter doubt. "Nino," he murmurs, "when are you going to kiss me?"

Nino doesn't move. He doesn't breathe. He doesn't speak.

Jean's brief surge of bravery, bolstered by his sleepy lowered inhibitions, stutters magnificently in the lone heartbeat of silence that is born then.

A change in this heavy stalemate: Nino bites his bottom lip, probably without consciously meaning to, but oh what it does to Jean. "Did you end up drinking by yourself?" he asks, voice distant. One of his arms remains wrapped around Jean's back and is thus pinned down; the other holds up the entirety of his weight by Jean's side. It is not as steady as Jean would have expected.

This, this maddening dance they've flirted with long enough Jean can barely recall when it's not been carefully performed, has to end now.

Jean's other hand reaches up to cup Nino's cheek, and he pulls him closer, from a hand's width to four fingers', to three... to two. To one.

Their shallow breathing intermingles. So too does their body heat: Nino, perpendicular to him, hangs over him lowly, his warmth seeping past that insignificant gap between them and into Jean.

Jean's thumb glides over Nino's cheek. "I'm more sober now than I've ever been."

Nino's eyes have been on his, unwavering. They flick to his mouth. Back to his eyes.

He doesn't speak. But he does breathe: a small, shaky exhale. And he does move: a tiny tilt of his head, and the warmth he radiates that Jean can feel when he's nearby actually conducts into him, with Nino lightly meeting his lips. He burns at this point of contact, and the heat is carried elsewhere in his body, blood cells circulating madly. But not as madly as the way his sense of self dissipates, thoughts lost to the sensation of Nino, bent above him and kissing him with growing fervor, as Jean lets him know – by pulling him in closer, by weaving his hands through Nino's soft hair – that he's hungry for more.

Nino, lips never parting from Jean's, climbs on the bed – which Jean feels dip under his weight – and then on top of Jean himself – which Jean feels, searing, everywhere they touch. Those arms that had so carefully carried Jean now explore him. One goes under his shirt, skittering along Jean's spine; his other hand prefers to smooth over Jean's cheek. Jean lets him, revels in it, wrapping his legs around Nino, saying _Don't you stop_ with his body, as close to Nino as their clothes allow, and with his tongue mouthing this right to Nino.

The air itself has grown hot. Part of Jean knows he should turn his face aside to take a cool breath in. But it would mean breaking from Nino, ending this ardor long burning. And part of Jean doesn't want to let this go, now that they've let the flame consume them.

In the end, he doesn't need to act, as it's Nino who trails kisses down to his neck. Jean inhales, sharply, both from this fresh air and from Nino's teeth gently sinking into the sensitive skin at the curve of his neck. It had hurt – a good kind of hurt, one that reminds Jean he has a heart, beating double time, sending his life's blood in parallel to his nerves, fraying with overstimulation – but Jean had kept the cry in with mouth drawn tight. He doesn't want to give Nino the satisfaction. Not yet.

He presses the tip of his tongue against his teeth, keeping his voice restrained, as Nino moves to the hollow in the middle of Jean's collarbone.

One kiss there, close-lipped and reverent. One kiss, and Jean is undone. Much like his shirt, pulled off with a cottony whisper. Nino's follows, both of them fumbling to get it off swiftly, blindly; they've yet to separate from each other. Nino tosses it carelessly aside, and his hands are now free to flutter to the jut of Jean's hips, thumbs hooked on the hem of Jean's pants to tug them down. They're off. Jean unwraps his legs from Nino and sits up, Nino moving back to accommodate their new position.

Jean eases out of the kiss, though he keeps the distance between them inconsequential. But it's to glance down and make sure he takes Nino's pants' zipper between his fingers. And to speak.

"Make me forget my own name."

Jean is not the heir to Dowa. He had chosen that path for himself. This will be the only command of the prince-that-could-have-been.

Nino's smile is thick and dangerous and Jean needs it on him. Which happens right away, at the corner of his jaw, as Nino guides Jean back down on the bed while his other hand works off his own pants.

"For you," he whispers against the softness of Jean's skin, the sharpness of his jawbone, "anything and everything." 

* * *

Jean wakes up first.

Maybe it's because his body had accepted his early wake-up time the day before, and had helpfully roused him before his alarm's shrieking. That's a good thing, he supposes, even if he hasn't quite blinked away the film of grogginess. He does this now as he sits up, the darkness of the room taking vaguely familiar shapes, aided by the thin rectangle of light coming from beneath the curtains. The outline of the person beside him, however, would be known to him not by sight but by intuition.

He turns to face Nino, whose back is to him. _Not a dream_ , he thinks with finality, clarity.

Smiling, he slips out of bed to shower and get ready for today's continuing audit, going about it even quieter than yesterday so Nino won't wake up.

It's successful this time; Nino is still sleeping when Jean, cleaned and dressed, carefully steps out of the bathroom. Wearing clothes feels odd after a night spent feeling only patches of the bed sheets where they fell on his skin. It's odder yet knowing his clothes cover up his body, which Nino is now intimate with. Like it's pointless to ever be clothed around him again.

A little embarrassed by that thought, Jean shakes his head, wet hair sticking to his forehead here and there. _I'm getting ahead of myself_.

The room has gotten lighter since he woke up. He can discern greater detail: the wrinkles on his empty pillow, the pattern on the carpet, the clothes strewn on the floor.

 _I should get that_ , he thinks, and picks them up. He folds them as best as he can, considering their night spent in careless crumples, and that half of it is probably not going to be used soon anyway. It gives him something with which to busy himself, though, as he waits for Nino to wake up. So they can have breakfast. And talk.

Jean sits on the very armchair that Nino had picked him up from last night. He stretches his legs and looks down at his shoes, glossy with the light suffusing. _Are we anything else now?_ he wonders. Sex didn't mean romance. Nino could have thought this was a momentary lapse in Jean's judgment, a succumbing to the tense tightrope that connected them both.

He looks back up, to Nino. The bed sheets come up to his waist. They spill across the bed – too large with only Nino in it – like a silken body of water. The light that makes it to Nino is feeble on his back, on the mop of his hair. It barely reaches the twin scars on his upper back, their dark irregular sprawl like the bottoms of canyons. Jean had mapped them yesterday with his fingertips, had felt their minute rises and falls. Jean glances down and realizes he's been mindlessly drawing that pattern, etched in his mind, on the back of his other hand. He firmly sets one hand on each pant leg and picks his head up. Nino hasn't moved.

Jean's heart swells as if he'd never seen Nino before. Even sleeping, he has this effect on him.

He's reaching for Nino's camera before he knows it. He's careful with it as he probes how it fits in his hands. He may have never held it before, but he's been the one the lens had pointed at for a very long time, so it feels like he knows it and its comforting blockiness. He smoothly swings the lens toward Nino.

The camera doesn't pick up the light like Jean's eyes do, and the image is grainy and gray. Jean lowers the camera, disappointed. Though...

He hangs the camera around his neck before walking toward the curtains. He takes the edge of one.

 _Please don't wake up_ , he mentally pleads as he pulls it open, as soundlessly as he can, for a sliver's more of light.

Nino's back glows; the shadows on his skin recede. Thankfully, he remains asleep. Jean raises the camera, thinking this should be enough for it to recognize.

It isn't.

He presses his lips together and draws the curtain open a hint more. The light casts a modestly-sized rectangle on Nino and the headboard while cutting off just slightly below his waist, framing exactly what Jean wants. He brings the camera back up.

The image is as perfect as the real thing. Jean captures it. A shiver runs from his spine to his fingers curled around the camera. Something precious and momentary will now always last.

His eyes fall to the camera, the viewfinder trying to focus on Nino again. _Is that how Nino feels each time he takes my picture?_

On the viewfinder, he sees Nino stir.

Jean puts the camera down, but holds it almost protectively to him.

Nino rubs his eyes. Twists around, blinking blearily. Levelly meets Jean's eyes across the room.

"Is that my camera?" he asks, a just-woke-up huskiness in his voice.

"Yes." His heart's sudden hammering is loud in his ears.

Nino throws an arm across his forehead to shield himself from the light. He's smiling. "Whatever did you take a picture of?"

"Um." His earlier calm is long forgotten; why had he been calm, he'd had sex with Nino and then taken his half-naked picture without his consent; what was _wrong_ with him?

Nino sits up, sheets pooling on his lap. "Can I see?"

Despite Jean being the one who is clothed, he feels exposed under Nino's tender gaze. Nino isn't angry Jean had used his camera without permission. He genuinely wants to see what could have possibly made him use it.

Jean's legs move of their own. He's by the bed, giving Nino the camera, their hands brushing, when he blurts, "It was you."

Nino's hand stays on the camera, held up by the both of them. "You took a picture of me?" he asks, after a silent second.

"...yes." Jean lets go of the camera like it has burned him. "Sorry."

"Hey," Nino says, softly, reaching for the hand Jean had just pulled away. "There's nothing for you to apologize about." He presses his thumb to Jean's palm, grounding him. "You've always been on that side of the lens. You're more than entitled to reversing that. Besides..." He gently takes his hand away. "I'd like to know how good your eye for pictures is, too."

"Oh," Jean says, quiet enough it could pass as a sigh.

Nino presses a few buttons. _Click, click_. And there he is, as he was earlier. As Jean had seen him. As the camera had decreed was true. Strips of natural darkness framing Nino, a fuzzy halo around his bare outline where the light danced off him. The bed's solid, creamy colors a stark contrast to the white of sunlight, the black of shadow. The graceful curve of a muscled back. Lines of faint scratch marks. Two faded scars.

Nino clears his throat. "The composition is good, actually," he says.

The light has grown stronger, and Jean sees Nino's ears are pink.

"It is a little odd being the subject of a picture, I have to say." He faces Jean, who belatedly realizes that with him standing and Nino on the bed, he is the one Nino has to look up to, if briefly. "Is this how you always felt?"

Jean smiles. "No, but sometimes I wasn't sure that I did anything worth taking a picture of. Though I trusted you."

"Past tense?" Nino says, sounding teasing, but there is something heavy in his eyes.

Now it's Jean who puts his hand on top of Nino's. He does it lightly, unsure of this action, but more than certain of what he says. "I still trust you. I always will."

Nino blinks, and his eyes are as deep and lovely and sincere as Jean remembers them being. He slowly flips his hand and twines his fingers with Jean's. "I trust you, too."

There is no second-guessing as to what his intentions are.

"I'm gonna shower and whatnot," Nino says. "I promised I'd have breakfast with you."

"Plus lunch and dinner," Jean says with an easy grin.

Nino squeezes his hand, returning the grin. "Yeah."

He helps Nino up, and he goes back to being the shorter one – though he's still the only clothed one. His cheeks warm up, defying that last night they'd been tangled in one another. But he counters that by not exactly averting his eyes as Nino digs up today's outfit.

Jean waits out on the balcony. He’d opened the curtains as wide as they could go so the gentle sunlight streaming on his face saturates the room behind him. It’s nice out, unbelievably so. He takes a deep breath in. A part of the sandy, rocky landscape sprawled before him is now within him. He breathes out, and with it also go the last of his apprehensions.

Unthinkingly, he brings two fingers to his lips to remove a cigarette that isn’t there. He lets his fingers linger.

 _Do I taste like cigarette smoke?_ he wonders. _And if I do, could it grow to be an addiction for Nino?_

The corner of his mouth turns up. _No, that’s ridiculous_. Nonetheless, a blush persists.

He hears the sliding glass door open. He hears Nino walk next to him. Sees him enter at the blurred border of his vision.

“Are we ready for… this?” he asks, and Jean knows it’s not about getting breakfast.

“I am,” Jean answers, aware of every bit of his skin warmed by the morning sun. He turns to meet Nino. “But only if you are.”

The light dances prettily on Nino’s eyes, gone soft at the corners. “Yeah,” he says, with so much affection in one word Jean’s heart skips a beat, and then two when Nino palms his cheek. “I am.”

Their kisses last night had been wild, desperate, the intense denouement of something long burning. That could have been it. One night followed by a lifetime of silently agreed ignorance or shame.

This morning, with a kiss slow and sweet as molasses, they refute that.

Jean puts his hand on top of Nino’s as he pulls away, as the soles of his shoes touch ground again. His eyes flit up to Nino’s. “Do I taste like cigarette smoke?”

Nino considers it. “Maybe a little? But I don’t think of it as that, really. It’s just... you.”

Jean bites back a smile.

Nino’s eyes fall to what Jean thinks is his neck. “Hm,” he says, and Jean feels his fingers flutter over his shirt’s collar.

“Am I still terrible at dressing myself?” Jean says, letting the smile happen as he lowers his hand to better let Nino work.

“No, it’s just that, um. Your neck.”

“What about it?”

“I moved your collar some to cover up... y’know.” There’s a smattering of pink on his cheeks.

Jean’s eyes widen a little in understanding. “Right,” he says, knowing his face is getting just as pink as Nino’s. The lazy necklace of love bites Nino had given him is probably leaving tiny black chars onto the inside of his collar.

“I mean,” Nino continues, looking directly at Jean again, “it’s not a very good way of covering them up. So just don’t move your neck at work, I guess.”

A second of silence follows. And after that, they both start laughing at the incredulous suggestion.

“I’ll try,” Jean promises. “I’ll turn my whole body to look at things instead of swiveling my neck.”

“Exactly. I’m sure you’ll look very normal.”

“Mmm. Very.”

Nino takes a step back, toward the sliding door. “Anyway, I believe I owe you breakfast.”

“That you do,” Jean says, smile widening.

He reaches for Nino’s hand, lacing his fingers in between his. It’s a warm, perfect fit.


	44. false evidence

"Here," Jean says, putting Nino's drink in front of him before sliding in to the seat across from him, his own drink in hand.

Nino smiles in silent thanks and raises his glass. "Cheers."

Nino has had years to study Jean's every thoughtless gesture, every subtle change in his expression, every word carefully chosen or kept mum.

So when Jean's smile is but a thin stretch of his lips, and that after he knocks his glass to Nino's he doesn't even drink, Nino knows something is wrong.

Regardless, Nino makes himself swig down some of his beer. It hurts, being forced down, but he doesn't let it show.

That's something else he's familiar with doing.

Jean doesn't notice (when has he?) as he's glancing down, fiddling his thumbs on the edge of the table. At the right angle, Nino can see where his glossy prints mar the varnished wood. The foam on his untouched beer flattens.

"Is something on your mind?" Nino asks, knowing the answer is 'yes,' but he's not going to make Jean tell him anything he doesn't want to, as readily as Nino would listen.

Jean's posture slackens with a quiet sigh. "There is," he says, turning his head up, wearing a serious look.

The tip of Nino's tongue slips between his teeth, and retracts quick as a snake. "Would you like to tell me?"

"I kinda have to."

He bites the tip of his tongue again, but a little harder, feeling the toothy imprints it'll briefly leave behind. In a single neuron's firing crackle a thousand possibilities of what this could be about, and all of them tighten his stomach. _Jean doesn't want me around anymore; Jean is seeing someone; Jean is moving; Jean is quitting ACCA_.

"For one day," Jean says, looking in Nino's general direction, but not level with his eyes, "I need you to pretend you're my boyfriend."

Nino's mental flurry immediately dwindles as Jean's words seem to hang in the air, suddenly soupy, suddenly closing in on him so that his vision goes fuzzy at the edges and Jean, lit in soft yellow, is the center of it all.

"Well, less than a day," Jean continues, idly rubbing his neck, eyes flitting about, seeking anything that's not Nino. "Just a few hours. Next Friday."

Part of Nino knows he has to reply; the longer he sits there dumbfounded the more suspicious his reason for silence grows. But no part of him remembers how to speak.

Jean keeps talking. "It's for an ACCA party. Y'know, its 101st anniversary." His hand settles on the table again. Nino's eyes are drawn to it, those delicate, bony fingers of his that can so elegantly hold a cigarette now drumming an arrhythmic beat. They would be so lovely to intertwine with Nino's. "At previous parties, I've been bothered by people flirting or wanting to know if I'm single. It's annoying. I want to avoid that this year." His fingers come to a standstill. Nino looks at him, and Jean finally looks back. "But only if you're fine with it."

The blood inside Nino has stopped circulating; his chest goes rigid, trapping the last traces of oxygen he'd taken in and freezing it, forming a solid block of ice that seeps the heat from him.

This is dangerous. Oh, this is _terribly_ fucking dangerous.

"Nino?"

He'd do anything for Jean. Truly anything, laws be damned. The issue here is that he is kind of impossibly in love with Jean, and pretending he isn't – something perfected over the years, something he had to perfect – would crumble if he dons this additional layer of deceit, acting like he loves Jean while acting like it wasn't the truth to begin with.

Does he say yes, because this is what he gives to Jean, and because for one day they would be real? Or does he say no, because this would ruin him, and because he isn't certain he could be detached about this?

The sound of Jean sighing. "I knew this was stupid to ask-"

"No," Nino blurts, functioning again as good as he currently can. "It's fine. I'll do it."

Ah. So there is his answer.

Jean eyes him with uncertainty. "It took you a bit to reply, though. Are you sure? It... it won't change anything if you say no. It's a weird thing to ask."

"I'll do it," Nino repeats, wrapping a hand around his beer. It is warmer than it should be. Is it him, then? He drinks, swallowing down the bitterness of his words along with the hops. And yet there's a sweet aftertaste – the malt, surely. He tries a smile. "It's not like you have anyone else to ask."

Thus begins this charade.

Jean sinks into his chair. "Yeah." The corners of his lips turn up minutely. "Thanks."

"Sure. It's what friends are for. Dragging them into schemes."

A drop of condensation sliding down Nino's glass drips onto his hand, and he thinks he can hear his skin sizzle. 

* * *

Acting is about preparing, Nino knows. The role has to become second-nature and it can only become so if the role is thought about, dismantled into its smallest constituents, and remade into a suit perfectly fitting one self. He's tailored the suit that is Nino for years, and with it sewn pockets to neatly hide anything counter to what Jean sees – though it's not a suit anymore so much as it is his actual skin. It has been fine, mostly because Jean has never been intellectually inclined in romance. He has not heard past what Nino doesn't say. He has not noticed Nino's close orbit around him and asked why he continues to stay. It has been fine because being in love with his best friend doesn't impact anything more solid than his own heart, and Jean (fortunately, unfortunately) can't see it.

So in doing nothing to prepare for this new and very physical role except avoiding thinking about it until suddenly it's the day of, Nino has dug himself a deeper hole.

There are too many details he should have considered. What is the minimum distance Jean wants him to keep? Does he have to be by Jean the whole night? Is he supposed to be affectionate? If so, how much? What is their backstory? He walks to Jean's barely aware of what is going on about him; for every manic beat of his heart, a new frantic thought arises.

Somehow, he makes it in one piece to their apartment, ringing the buzzer and announcing himself.

Jean opens right away. Leaning on the doorframe, he eyes Nino up and down. "You dressed nicer than me."

"Was I supposed to look worse than you?" he jokes in spite of his internal panic. The only reason his voice doesn't betray him is that he has practice in lying.

"No, I meant like- this is a work thing. I don't really care about it."

"You're just there for the free food, right?" Nino asks as Jean exits and closes the door.

Jean smiles. "What other reason is there?"

They take the subway to ACCA's headquarters. For the time being, Nino pretends this is one of their usual get-togethers and maintains the kind of posture and conversation he typically would. It's when they're nearing the building that he falters, doubts finally surfacing.

Jean places a hand on his elbow probably meant to be calming, but even though Nino's wearing a jacket and Jean has on gloves it has the opposite effect. "Second thoughts? You really don't have to do this, you know."

Nino takes a careful breath in. "No, I just..." He struggles in forming his thoughts into something less obvious of how hopeless he is. "We need to be on the same page about this fake relationship, in case anyone asks."

Jean takes his hand away to run it through his hair, looking bashful. "To be honest, I thought you'd take care of it if it came up. You're good with words."

"You mean better at lying."

"Maybe a little."

They exchange smiles.

"Okay," Jean says, bringing his hand down to curl it on the crook of Nino's elbow. "Um, let's say we've been dating... six months? And you asked me out." He looks at him. "Is that all we need?"

His eyes, clear as water, catch the twinkling lights from indoors. He's so earnest. _And too pretty for my own good_ , Nino thinks, having to glance aside to gather his thoughts. "Do you want me to stick by you the whole night?"

"I mean, you can get food too, that's part of the plus in coming with me, but I'd prefer if you didn't go far so I don't have to talk to anyone else."

Despite all this, that gets a small laugh out of Nino, but it subsides when the next question forms in his lips. "How... how convincing do you want me to be?"

Jean frowns. It just makes him prettier. "What do you mean?"

God, he really doesn't want to say this. "I mean like..." But there's no choice. "Like PDA."

"Oh." The tips of Jean's ears turn slightly pink. "Well, I trust you. So you make the call if it comes down to it."

 _Jean Otus, you are going to kill me_. He forces a smile. "Got it."

"Let's go in; we've been out here long enough and it's chilly." Jean's hold on him tightens as he leads them inside.

The party is well underway. Above the sound of jazz music, its origins impossible to discern, is a blanket of dozens of conversations, dozens of different voices overlapping. People laugh and talk and dance and snack from the long line of tables filled with finger food.

"I don't think you have much to worry about, since no one seemed to notice you came in," Nino says right as Jean's three women coworkers scurry up to them. "Oh, never mind," he manages to mutter before they're within earshot, getting a laugh disguised as a cough out of Jean.

"We were starting to think you were skipping," says the short one with pink hair. What were their names? _Has_ Jean mentioned their names?

"But instead," the one with blue hair says, "you come and surprise us all!"

Three pairs of mischievous eyes are on Nino.

"I'm Nino," he says with a courteous nod.

"You look familiar," says the tall one with green hair, tapping her chin.

"He does the photography at my building's annual New Year's Eve thing," Jean supplies.

The short one claps her hands. "I see!"

"Argh, let's get to the point!" Blue Girl says. "How long has _this-_ " She gestures between him and Jean _._ "-been going on? And why are we only finding out now?"

Jean draws himself in to Nino. "I like to keep my private life exactly that way. Excuse us, we're going to get food." He leads away Nino again. Well. He's always led Nino, indirectly; where Jean went, there Nino did too. Getting physically pulled along by him is probably Nino's comeuppance. And he's very fine with it.

"So much for our cover story," Nino says when they're comfortably away from the trio. Did he sound a little bitter? He hopes not.

Jean breaks from Nino to pocket his gloves and grab a plate, which he starts piling with fruit and mille feuilles. "I didn't think we'd get thrown onto the wolves right away..."

Nino crosses his arms. "Do you think they'll ask again?"

"No."

"Huh."

"I _know_ they will."

They share a look and smirk.

"Aren't you going to eat anything?" Jean asks. "That's the main motivation here."

 _Far from it_ , Nino thinks. "Maybe later."

Jean shrugs and pops a pastry in his mouth. He gets a bit of its cream on the side of his mouth.

Nino laughs quietly, getting a napkin from the table. "Geez, Jean," he says, with more fondness than he should, as he wipes it away.

Jean, cheeks puffed from the food, is wide-eyed and a bit pink.

In turn – and realizing just what the hell he's doing – Nino's cheeks get hot. He throws away the napkin like it had singed him. "Sorry; you had-"

"Excuse me," comes a voice – it's Green Girl, come to get more food herself. She smiles beatifically at them, blindly putting food onto her plate. "How long have you been dating? You already seem so close."

 _None of your business_ , Nino wants to say, as if anything about it is real. Wait, had she seen what he did? _Of course she did; you're at an ACCA party, not drinking in some corner booth with Jean_. "Six months," he answers, throat drying out.

"Wow, really?"

"We've been friends for over a decade, though," he adds, for some reason. Is there alcohol here? A wine glass would be fantastic. He tries to meet Jean's eye in a silent _Help me out here_ plead, but Green Girl is talking again.

"Aw! No wonder."

Her plate is to her liking, it seems, as she joins her friends.

"What did she mean by that?" Jean asks, genuine wonder in his voice.

Nino looks down at him. "Nothing at all."

"That can't be true. She wouldn't have said anything otherwise."

 _Oh,_ now _you decide to think about this sort of thing_. "I don't know, then."

Jean looks in her direction. "Hmm."

"Hey, do you want to go further back?" Nino says, switching the subject. "There are more people congregated around the food than over there."

"Yeah, I'd-"

"Deputy Chief!"

It's someone else, someone Nino doesn't recognize, but he's friendly enough with Jean. Yet another few people come up. Jean is polite enough to actually converse with them, and it doesn't look like he hates it. Nino feels like he's intruding. He steps back, walking over to where he'd suggested to Jean they go.

For someone who doesn't particularly care about being with people, Jean is good at pulling them in. Nino smiles to himself as he turns around. _A royal pull_.

"He's pretty well-liked, for a boss," Pink Girl, appearing next to him, says.

"So it was always weird to us he wasn't seeing anyone," Blue Girl says, at his other side.

He hadn't heard them come up. And it had been his job for so long to be vigilant. Jean's pull on him is probably the strongest of all.

"Like Jean said," Nino slowly says, "he's not one to share details about his life."

"Sure, but that you're seeing someone is easy to slip into a conversation! Especially when sometimes he'd say something like he was meeting a friend for drinks and oh my God, _you're_ that friend." Blue Girl, shocked, brings a hand to her mouth. "He's been dating you this whole time and he didn't let us know. We didn't even pick up on the 'friend' bit!"

This is a misunderstanding from their wild imagination. But Nino doesn't really feel like correcting it. "It's how he is."

"How did you even start dating? We've tried to wheedle him on dates with our friends before and it never worked."

"Keri said they've been friends for a long time," Pink Girl says. "That makes it easier."

 _Guess that's Green Girl_ , Nino thinks, unsurprised she'd shared this with these two.

Blue Girl's eyes start glittering. "That's _so_ romantic! How did you get together?"

Is this scenario any better than had Jean come alone? Nino turns his head back. Jean is still in that small circle of coworkers and subordinates.

Well, whatever. The best lies always have a kernel of truth.

He looks between the two women. "It wasn't anything world-shaking. One day, while we were out drinking, he was red-faced from alcohol, his hair was disheveled, and he was trying not to fall asleep. It would have been easy to make fun of him, but instead I felt a pang and thought I could do that every day. Just sitting, talking, drinking. And then I realized we pretty much did that already. I thought about it more and started to pick apart all the times I'd looked at him, all the times I was reminded of him when he wasn't there, all the times I had wanted to be by him but couldn't, and I..." He drifts off, the vivid memory leaving him at a loss for words.

Someone tugs his arm.

Nino turns.

Jean.

"And you what?" he asks, voice so quiet it's more the shape his lips take that lets Nino know what he had said.

Nino's eyes are blue, as are Jean's, but Nino's are dark as night while Jean's are light like day. Nino knows this, has long known this.

Blue looks upon blue as if for the first time.

"And," Nino says, the party's din fading to a distant murmur, his own voice resonating in his jaw bones and through the thin space between he and Jean, "I realized I'd fallen for you."

He can count the heartbeats that pass because they boom in his ears. One (it's just him and Jean in this impossibly large room). Two (everything except Jean has blurred, has dimmed). Three (except, for a long time, it's been like this when Nino is near him). Four (but has Jean ever looked back at him like this?). Five (he hasn't, has he? Nino would have memorized everything about such an occasion).

"So then you asked him on a date?"

Nino's senses return. He blinks, readjusting to the fullness of the room, to everything that is not Jean. This is Pink Girl asking.

"Yeah," he says, wanting that glass of wine even more. "I did."

The women start making shrill noises, gushing over how sweet that was, why doesn't something like that happen to them, but they start this conversation more at each other than at Nino or Jean. Quietly, Jean grabs Nino by the hand and walks them away.

Nino has observed Jean hold his cigarettes and nurse glasses of alcohol and ruffle his own hair. He has slender, kind of bony hands, but they're effortlessly graceful.

He finds out now they're ever slightly smaller than his.

Jean stops, so Nino does too. Jean glances about, maybe to see that no one else is coming to bother them, and then looks at Nino – but only briefly; he turns his head down, but not before Nino had caught the inexplicable dusting of pink on his cheeks.

"See," he tells his shoes, "you're good with words."

 _No_ , Nino thinks, pushing down the need to link his fingers between Jean's, _I've just had time to think about you_.

"That was, um, really believable." Jean lets go of Nino to tightly hug himself. He looks aside. "So... thank you. I think that'll keep them occupied for a while. Even at work."

Jean says he's good with words, but right now he does not know what to say. He nods. Smiles. Or what he hopes is a smile. Smiles aren't supposed to feel this taut.

"You should get some of those chocolate mousses," Jean says. "They're from a Korore caterer. So, you know, it's good chocolate. You'll like them."

Nino swallows. "Okay. Yeah. Thanks. Be right back."

 _Why did I ever think I could do this?_ he thinks as he grabs the first mousse he spots before making the walk back to Jean. Realizing he's walking a little too fast, he takes slower, measured steps. In that time, he sneaks a look at Jean. He's thin-lipped, focused on his hand. Was that the hand that had led Nino?

Nino quickly looks back down and takes a spoonful of the mousse. It's sweet and fluffy and under other circumstances he'd have enjoyed it more.

"Hey," Jean says when Nino is back, "I'm stepping out for a smoke."

"Alright."

Jean lingers. He seems expectant, like something has been left unsaid.

"Do... you want me to accompany you?" Nino tries. It was why Jean had wanted him to come, after all.

"If you don't mind."

"No." _Never_.

It's gotten colder outside. Jean puts his gloves back on. But as they're thick, he fumbles with lighting his cigarette, breath coming out in wispy frustrated clouds.

Without saying anything, Nino takes the lighter. _Click_ , in one try, his fingers able in his well-worn leather gloves, and the flame ignites the end of Jean's cigarette.

"Henksh," Jean says through his cigarette.

Nino sputters in laughter.

Jean takes a quick inhale and then dangles the cigarette between two fingers. "What?" he asks, smoke puffing out of his mouth.

"When you thanked me, it came out funny." He takes a small bite of the mousse. "I think it was 'thanks,' anyway. Is 'henksh' some new word I'm not familiar with? I'm too out of pop culture."

Jean rolls his eyes, but he's holding back a smile.

So Jean smokes, Nino eats his sugary dessert. They each have their vices.

Nino may have more than one, though. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Jean's lips take in the cigarette, draw in its heady rush of chemicals, and then breathe out the smoke. It's not good for Jean, but it's never been good for Nino, either.

"After they cut the cake," Jean says, "we can leave."

"So soon?"

Jean looks at him. "Did you want to stick around more?"

"Whatever you want."

"I want cake and that's it. I was serious when I said the food is the only reason I bother with these things."

Nino chuckles. "Fine. Cake and then we're out of here."

Jean taps ash off his cigarette, smiling. "Henksh."

They laugh.

Muted claps and cheers from inside the building get their attention.

"I think the cake has been cut," Nino says.

Jean stubs out his cigarette. "Now's our getaway."

Nino tosses out his spoon and empty dessert cup. "The perfect crime."

"As long as you're there," Jean says, walking inside, the party's loud noises washing over them again.

Nino opens his mouth, meaning to get affirmation he'd heard that right. But he can't. He closes his mouth and trails after Jean.

They each get a slice and brazenly leave. Jean starts eating his right away, but Nino isn't very hungry.

"I don't want to eat this on the subway," Jean says as they make their way to the station. "Can we stop for a bit?"

"Sure. There's a park ahead. We can sit on a bench or something."

"Sounds good."

In the next block, diverging off the sidewalk, they follow a path lined with lights dripping honey-colored pools. It is enough light to vaguely discern the immediate surroundings, but it is not enough to get a good glance at Jean. The flutter in Nino's heart is blind to looks, it seems. It's as simple as Jean being next to him that gets him this way.

Jean heads for the nearest bench. Nino sits after him without much thought, but as soon as he does he sees he sat too close to Jean. If he angled his leg a few degrees to the side, his knee would bump Jean's. Would it be weird to get closer to the bench's edge and give Jean more space?

Something touches Nino's knee, and for a millisecond he panics, thinking he somehow nudged Jean instead. But it wasn't him. It was Jean. _Bump, bump_ he goes, leisurely.

"Nino," Jean says.

Nino is fixated on their knees. _Bump, bump_. "Hmm?"

"Thanks for being my pretend boyfriend today."

He becomes acutely aware of his breathing and suddenly he can't remember if he was supposed to breathe in or out. He flits his eyes to one of the path lights. Looking at it straight on is kind of blinding. "You're welcome."

"I hope it wasn't too annoying."

"It was fine. That wasn't hours, like you had said. And we survived."

The smile is unmistakable in Jean's voice when he replies, "Yeah, we did."

"Are you-" _Bump, bump_. "-just gonna keep it up? The lie. At work."

Jean's knee stills. "Huh. I hadn't thought about it."

"If we don't pretend-break up," Nino says, making himself look at Jean, night's shadows and insignificant path lights leaving him in sepia tones, in the ways of old photography. "If we don't pretend-break up, from now on they'll just assume we're dating."

"What's so bad about that?" Jean asks.

Nino stares at him.

Jean quickly adds, "I mean, that if we- if they keep assuming, they'll leave me alone about my love life."

"Ah," Nino says, fingers curling on his paper plate. "Makes sense."

A cricket chirps somewhere. A few tires growl on the street hiding behind the park's midnight-black shrubbery.

"Is it okay," Jean says, "if I rest my head on you?"

"Yes," Nino says before he knows it.

Jean shifts closer to him. He leans on Nino's shoulder. They're both in coats, so it doesn't feel much like a person against him, rather something warm and bulky, but the pressure where his bare head meets his arm is very much a person.

"Is the cake good?" Nino asks, to fill up this space, to distract himself.

"Yeah. It's part of why I even wanted to go to the party, remember?"

"Oh. Right."

"Aren't you going to eat yours?"

He glances down at it. "I don't think I will. You want it?"

"Yeah, for Lotta."

"Here," Nino says, handing the plate over. But it is flimsy, and his hands aren't the camera-steady he has trained them to be. The whole thing plops on the dirt.

They look at it.

"That wasn't on purpose, was it?" Jean asks.

Despite himself, Nino laughs. "No. Sorry, though."

"I forgive you."

"Very kind of you."

"I try."

Nino's fond smile is mercifully hidden in great part by the night. "Let me get it," he says, bending to pick up the fallen cake using the plate as pincers. He sees Jean already finished his. "I'll throw that away for you, too."

Jean thanks him and hands him the empty plate, plastic fork balanced in the middle. Nino notes the nearest trash can is ten or so meters away. As he goes to it, he thinks he can feel Jean's eyes burn twin holes on his back. But when he turns around for the walk back, Jean is looking ahead at whatever mystery he sees in the trees.

When he sits down, Jean leans on him again, as if he'd never been gone, as if this is an everyday thing for them.

Nino lets him.

Another cricket has joined the earlier one's song. There is a faint hooting, somewhere – an owl. On top of that, the burbling chirps and croaks of frogs. There is a lot to pay attention to if Nino cares to.

"If it happened, it wouldn't be so bad, would it?"

That is what Nino thinks he hears Jean say. It doesn't make much sense, so he asks, "What wouldn't be bad if it happened?"

Maybe Nino imagines it, or maybe Jean really does pull away a bit. But he definitely says, "Us dating."

The park goes silent as Jean's words echo in Nino's head.

 _Us dating_.

_If it happened, it wouldn't be so bad, would it?_

_Us dating_.

Jean hurriedly gets up. "We should, um, really get home before it's too late in the day. Night. Late in the night. Let's-"

"Jean." Nino stands in a daze. He can barely hear himself over his heart's drumming. "Did you mean that?"

Jean is a terrible liar. His eyes dart about on anything that is not Nino; his lips are parted in an excuse he can't make himself speak.

Then, finally, he holds Nino's gaze. He crosses his arms defensively. "When you were talking about... liking me. It was like you were describing my thoughts. I hadn't connected the dots yet, though, so when you said it I- it just made sense. It made perfect sense. Even though you were lying on the spot, that was exactly what I could never-"

"I wasn't lying."

Whatever Jean was going to say next freezes, as does his posture.

Nino reaches for one of Jean's hands and gently frees it from his tight self-reservation. "I lied about asking you out, obviously." He carefully links his fingers through Jean's, one by one. When the whole of his hand holds Jean's, Nino is certain his heartbeat, pulsing past his fingertips and both of their gloves, is still reaching Jean. "But God, Jean. Falling for you is the truest thing that has ever happened to me."

He hears and sees Jean's breath stutter out. "Really?"

"Really."

"And you still went along with me on this?"

"When have I ever said no to you?"

There is light here, poor as it may be, but Nino would know the shape of Jean's smile even in complete darkness. "Were you unnerved when I asked you to come with me today, then?"

"Oh, I was losing my mind. But it led to this. All's well that ends well or whatever." He pauses. "There's one more thing, though."

"What's that?"

"I'd said I'd asked you out. I think I should do that now. Get rid of all the lies."

Jean glances down and exhales in a soft laugh. "Asking me out. That sounds like something from high school."

"What else should I call it?"

"You don't need to call it anything. Just this." He places his free hand on top of Nino's. "Nino, please actually date me."

It takes a second for Nino to process that. His ears warm up.

"I was about to ask you!"

"Well, too bad."

"You didn't even phrase it as a question!"

Jean leans forward. He is smirking. And it is scandalously attractive. "You can't say no to me."

"Jean," Nino says, now warm everywhere, wearing a smile that quivers from the wild speed his heart is going at, "you really do make me lose my mind, you know."

"Is that a yes?"

He unwinds their hands. One moves to cup Jean's face; the other presses against the small of his back, pulling him entirely in. "That's a yes," he whispers over Jean's lips before meeting them, true as his word. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to see what 'thanks' would sound like w/ a cigarette between ur teeth i had to use a cookie. fun oversharing behind-the-scenes fact


	45. good wishes

Deep breath in. Straighten the back, roll the shoulders. Clear the throat.

_Ready_ , Nino thinks, though from the nervous beat of his heart, it's a self-delusion. But one needed to go forward.

On his phone is Jean's name, accompanied by a strawberry emoji that he sometimes replaces with a heart, only to delete when in better judgment. He presses it. Waits for him to pick up.

Phone rings have never been so loud, so long and discordant.

In two, he gets the "Hello?" that as simple as it is, as often as he's heard it, still makes him smile – in part because this isn't a curious _Hello?_ to greet an unknown caller. This is the expectant, mischievous _Hello, what are we getting into today?_   Jean gives him and only him.

"Jean," he says, savoring it like wine, but no wine is this intoxicating, this addicting.

"That's me," Jean says, as Nino goes a breath too long without speaking, Jean's name still tingling the tip of his tongue.

_Damn it_ _. Don't ruin this any more_. "Are you free tomorrow morning?"

"Yes."

Nino licks his lips. Here it goes. "There's a café close to my place I'd like to go to. Wanna check it out?"

"Sure." Being over the phone, Nino cannot see Jean's face, but the tone he answers in makes it obvious to him that Jean is smiling. He's had years to discern Jean's every mood and tell through voice alone. "When and where?"

Nino tells him, Jean agrees. It doesn't take long at all, and for other people this would be a trifle exchange perhaps texted rather than talked about. But Nino has his reason for going about it this way: if he's going to tell Jean how he actually feels about him, the segue into the big moment needs to be perfect too.

They hang up, Nino's heart miraculously maintained within his rib cage, if somewhat worse for the wear. He looks at the bluish white glow of his phone, Jean's name and little strawberry bored into his eyes even when he turns the phone off.

_I'm really doing this_ , he thinks, sitting down on his couch, putting his head in his hands. He can feel his temples throb. _The last secret out_.

He'd never expected to fall in love with the prince he had to watch over, much as he never expected to tell said prince who they both were. But that truth had emerged. And their bond, against all odds, had been strengthened. If Jean could accept him after all his lies, surely he'd accept him after his single sacrosanct truth. He won't reciprocate, and Nino has made his peace with that, but Jean would not be the kind of person to treat him differently after a confession.

Right?

"He wouldn't," Nino insists to his empty apartment. It sounds stronger out loud instead of being constantly in his mind.

He doesn't need Jean to be willing to give them a try. Really. It's fine. As long as Jean knows. As long as Jean's choices make him happy. But he _does_ need to tell him; this secret itches like a wound scabbed over, one he's carefully ignored, willing for it to heal on its own. Time couldn't be held accountable for everything, though. Sometimes it's up to individuals to make a change. The outcomes might be unpredictable, but in the end, regardless of expectations, one could say they stepped forward and tried. They could die without regrets.

_Tomorrow_ , Nino thinks, _we'll see what happens_.

* * *

Jean is beautiful in everything, but today, in a creamy orange shirt that brings out his eyes, his hair lit up like strands of gold, his smile present since Nino picked him up, his leisurely walking graceful, it's easy to stare.

Not that Nino does. Okay, maybe a little. Thank goodness for his sunglasses hiding his eyes.

"I'm glad it's finally spring," Jean says. "I missed how the sun feels."

"It is nice," Nino says, too distracted over what is to come to be much of a conversationalist.

From the corner of his eye, Nino sees that Jean's smile turns into a smirk. Then Jean is taking the sleeve of his shirt between thumb and forefinger.

"Why are you still in long sleeves, then?"

"I like them," Nino says, looking pointedly ahead. "Is it warmer than usual? For spring, I mean."

"No," Jean says, letting Nino go, "it's perfectly fine out."

Ah. So the heat in his ears inching toward his cheeks is not external. Another thing ruined.

Jean doesn't seem to pick it up, as they arrive at the café just as they have arrived to others much like it. They order food and drinks and find a table tucked away in a corner.

"This place is cute," Jean says, looking around. "Cozy, too."

Nino agrees. In a city as bustling as Badon, it is nice to find small refuges like this one seemingly taken out of the countryside. If all goes well today, he'd even like to come back.

Their orders come quick. Wispy steam rises from their coffee. The fruit on Jean's pastry looks fresh; the chocolate on Nino's is rich and glossy.

"It actually looks like this was made here," Jean says, holding his up.

That gets a laugh out of Nino, and he briefly forgets why he is nervous. "You sound surprised."

"Yeah. These are usually shipped frozen and heated up at individual cafés. I don't care – if something tastes good it tastes good – but it's surprising." He takes a bite out of his. "Mmm. That's good. Here." He twists his plate around so Nino can try the pastry from the other side.

"I haven't asked to try it," Nino says, despite his smile – how can he not, when Jean does little kindnesses like this without prompting?

"We haven't been here before, so you know you want to."

_You know you want to_. Jean hadn't meant anything by it, but with today's main preoccupation quietly spinning around in Nino's head, it increases the speed that his thoughts fly by at, as it does the pace of his heart.

His throat's gone dry. "Okay," he manages to say. He picks it up and nibbles on it. "You're right." 

"Nino," Jean says, eyeing the pastry and then Nino with a terribly attractive quirk of his lip and eyebrow, "you barely tried it."

"Well, it's yours."

"And? If I paid for it, I can do what I want with it." He pushes the plate closer to Nino. "You don't have to be so modest. It's you, after all."

He can't argue with Jean. Especially not today.

"Okay," he says again, as Jean takes a self-satisfied sip of his coffee.

He takes a bigger bite. Strawberry, cream, crispy layers of dough. This would be what Jean's kisses would taste like.

He quickly puts the pastry back down and pushes the plate back to Jean.

Jean's coffee cup clinks on its plate. "Good, right?"

Nino nods, saving himself from speaking by drinking, the coffee burning smoothly and deliciously down his throat. Then he cuts his pastry in half and puts one piece on Jean's plate. "Here."

"I know I told you to take a bigger bite out of what I got," Jean says slowly, "but this is too much for you to give me."

"I'm not very hungry." He missed the chance to quip back Jean's own words that he can do what he likes with what he bought, but right now, that would be stale.

"Are you sure? You can always eat the rest later."

"I'm sure."

Jean looks at the food. At Nino.

"Nino," he says, "is there something on your mind?"

Nino's hands, on his lap, find each other and clasp tight, knuckles whitening. "Why do you think that?"

"It's not just from the cake, if it's what you're thinking. Since you came to my apartment you've been... I don't know. More distant? Less talkative? Not very you."

Oh, _d_ _amn_ it all. Why had he not just refuted Jean's worry? Why does Jean notice things at the worst moments? Nino had been planning on telling him before leaving the café so that if it ended awkwardly, they didn't have to see each other for the rest of the day. He's standing at cliff's edge now, Jean's hand on the small of his back in what could be a push or a pull back.

But change can be incited by others too, can't it?

"There is something I wanted to tell you." Mentally rehearsed words flutter from him.

Jean curls his hand on his cheek. "What is it?"

Nino's eyes fall on his hands. _No, I need to look at him_. He makes himself do so.

It's like looking at the sun.

His breath goes out of him. His ribs poke at his shallow chest, urging him on.

"You were always surprised I've never dated anyone," he says. "There's a reason, though."

Lost in the thickness of time, in this moment long coming and so disastrously stumbled into, he forgets to speak again, which he realizes when Jean asks, "What's the reason?"

Jean had said spring's arrival was nice, but Nino prefers summer. The blue of such skies is the closest to Jean's eyes that nature can muster, and glancing at those skies is like knowing he's home. In this spring day, sitting in the corner of a quaint café itself wedged in loud Badon, two pieces of that summer sky earnestly, patiently hold Nino's gaze.

It undoes him.

"I've only ever loved you."

It doesn't feel like he's said that. He doesn't remember - not even as insignificant as a heartbeat later - having said that. It seems to have blossomed from him of its own will, a seed planted years ago now flowering, so that even Jean can see it.

Jean. Nino blinks himself from his temporary lapse of awareness. What is Jean's reaction?

It's eyes gone wide, specks of blue swimming in white. It's parted lips – in shock, in something yet unspoken? It's a face turning pink fast.

"You-" Jean starts. Stops. He buries his face in his hands.

"This isn't going to change anything between us," Nino says – and that wasn't planned, what is he saying; pointing this out will make things worse. "I just- I wanted to tell you. I know you don't feel the same way. You don't have to. But I didn't want to keep anything from you." He looks at his uneaten pastry. "Not anymore."

Under the table, Jean weakly kicks him. He mutters something, but with his hands covering his face, it's muffled.

"I... didn't hear that."

Jean drops his hands. They form loose fists on the table. "I said," Jean says, turning his head up, and he is as pink as he gets when he drinks too much, "stop talking, Nino."

Nino draws his lower lip in, the top of his bottom teeth digging into it. Is Jean mad? Annoyed? Disgusted? For once, he cannot read him.

"You," Jean continues, "love _me_?"

Hearing that out of Jean is surreal. "I do."

"And you think," Jean says, "I don't love _you_?"

Nino hears this, but does not immediately understand it.

"Nino, have you _seen_ yourself?" Jean, somehow, is pinker. "I mean, that's just the physical factor, so that's kinda selfish, but- have you not noticed how I am with you? What you mean to me? How could you think I wouldn't love you back?"

Now it is Nino's mouth that's dumbly open. "What?"

"I never said anything because I thought you weren't interested in me; I figured if you were, you would have done something about it sooner, since you're always so confident in what you do."

Nino's chest hurts from the force his heart beats at. The blood rushes in his ears, a soft swishing that permeates everything, that makes the world sound not itself. And it might not be. Because the feeling is mutual.

He hadn't given a single thought to the possibility of this outcome. He sits, dumbstruck, dizzy, half-wondering if he has imagined everything since they got to the café.

"You love _me_?" he says, in Jean's echo.

"Yes."

"You're sure?"

Jean nudges him with his foot, a tiny and shy movement. " _Yes_."

So it's real.

"Oh."

"'Oh'?" Jean says it with something like a laugh.

"I hadn't planned for... this. I don't know what to do."

"Me either."

They look at each other.

"Is this a date now?" Nino asks, at the same time that Jean says, "We're both clueless."

A pause. They grin.

"It's a date if you want it to be," Jean says, poking Nino's hand flat on the table.

"It's a date, then," Nino answers. He turns his hand palm-up to curl his fingers around Jean's, who wordlessly lets him. They aren't as warm as the coffee, but they're so much better: slender, soft, fitting wonderfully between his. "We _are_ both clueless."

"At least we're clueless together." Jean squeezes their hands.

Nino lets him. Obviously.

"Why did you think I wouldn't love you, though? Especially after everything that's happened." Jean smiles. "My place is next to you."

With Jean's smile, and how his hand is well and truly in Nino's, and how sure he is about them swiftly changing into this, he cannot remember. "I don't know."

"See? Clueless."

Nino can't help a smile. Then he remembers something Jean had said. "Hold on, what was that about me having seen myself? A 'physical factor'?"

Jean's smile falls and the color returns to his cheeks. "Um," he says, "you know."

"I don't."

"You're, um," Jean says, flitting his eyes to the side, his other hand half-hiding his forehead. "Oh my god, don't make me say it. You _know_."

In the back of Nino's head, something clicks. "Oh, you think I'm attractive."

Jean puts his hand down. "Obviously," he mumbles.

Nino laughs. This has gone nothing like expected, and yet he doesn't know how else it could have happened. "You don't have to sound embarrassed. I think you're beautiful; I even thought that this morning. That shirt's great on you."

Jean pulls back the hand that been twined with Nino's, putting it to his chest and glancing down as if confirming he has it on. He looks back to Nino. "And then you say things like that."

"But it's true."

He folds his arms on the table and lays his cheek down, eyes up at Nino, smile returned. "It was really easy to fall in love with you, Nino."

The whole of him pangs. "The same goes for you."

Jean reaches a hand out.

This is real and it is his and he is not going to let it go.

Nino takes his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ACCA IS GETTING AN OVA AND RADIO DRAMA AND I SPENT ALL OF TODAY GOING FERAL MAYBE EVEN THE REST OF MY LIFE](https://twitter.com/ACCA_anime/status/1110579350514995200)
> 
> i wrote this in one sitting.....i'm telling yall i've been POSSESSED all day


	46. pulpwood

Home from work, Jean, sighing wearily, wordlessly throws himself over the back of the sofa where Nino is sitting. He lets his arms dangle by Nino, just as he lets - and is grateful for - Nino twining their fingers together.  
  
"Long day?" Nino asks, smiling sympathetically.  
  
"Ugh. That, and I have my next audit."  
  
"The horrors of actually doing your job." Nino swings their hands back and forth, back and forth. "Where to?"  
  
Jean's cheek sinks into the sofa's back. "Pranetta."  
  
Nino stills. "Oh." He pulls his hand back and pats the empty half of the sofa. "Come here."  
  
Jean rounds the sofa and obliges. He curls up next to Nino and puts his head on his thigh.  
  
"I'm also staying there for three days," Jean says, the words as heavy being said as they are felt.    
  
"Three days?"  
  
Jean looks up at him. Nino is trying to keep a neutral face, but Jean knows Nino like the back of his hand. There is disappointment in his eyes that he's subduing. Jean had expected this sort of response because their first anniversary is in three days, and they will be spending it apart.  
  
"Well, three days and two nights. So I get back the same day as our anniversary, but really late." He reaches for Nino's cheek. "You know I'm not the one who books the flights. I wouldn't be there on these dates otherwise."  
  
"And no one else can go?"  
  
Jean rests his hands on his chest. "If that was an option, I would have jumped at it."  
  
Nino briefly draws his lips together. He weaves his fingers through Jean's hair, root to tip. It makes Jean sleepier than he already is. His blinking slows; he burrows onto Nino's thigh with another sigh, content now.  
  
"I see," Nino says, voice above a whisper.  
  
Jean leans into Nino's touch. He peeks up at him. "I'm sorry."  
  
"It's not your fault. We can celebrate when you're back. Or the next day if need be, because I think you'll be tired." He brushes back Jean's hair and kisses his forehead. "The date we're together isn't so important. Dates are just numbers. It's that we do something at all that matters to me."  
  
"You don't really mean that," Jean mumbles sleepily. "You worry about important dates. And that's okay. I like your sentimentality."  
  
Nino smirks. "Yeah, you know me. But I was trying to make things suck less. You ruined it."  
  
"Sorry."  
  
"I forgive you because I love you so much it's a problem."  
  
Jean smiles. "I love you too." He extends his arms. "I'm tired. Carry me to bed?"  
  
Nino bends so Jean can wrap his arms around his neck. He stands, Jean safe in his hold.  
  
"Yeah," Nino laughs, quiet and lovely, "you know me."

* * *

Jean's flight departs in the afternoon, so the morning, spent in pleasant nothingness in Nino's presence, lulls him into false security. Only when he sees his suitcase prepped by the door does he remember he's leaving.

"What if I call in sick?" he wonders aloud, sitting in the dining room.  
  
"Jean."  
  
"What? You want me here."  
  
"Yes, but you need to do your job. Cheating would earn you no favors."  
  
He puts his head on the table. "I know. I just hate this." He straightens. "Don't you say anything about 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' or whatever. I won't kiss you goodbye."  
  
Nino, adjacent to him, puts one hand up while putting the other to his heart. "I would never."  
  
"Good."  
  
"I spent years keeping myself distant from you. There is no way in hell I'd willingly go back to that."  
  
Jean nudges his elbow. "Then let me call in sick."  
  
" _Jean_."  
  
"I'm kidding." _Mostly_ , he mentally adds. He eyes the clock and his stomach sinks. "Time to go."  
  
He puts on his jacket, shoes, and a scarf - that at Nino's behest.  
  
"It's cold here and it'll be colder there," Nino says, fixing the scarf. "Take care of yourself over there. Well, you always should, but more so when I'm not there-"  
  
Jean grasps his wrist. "What if you come with me? You're good at following me around."  
  
"On such late notice, not really." Nino puts his free hand on top of Jean's. "Especially not when I'd be going with you instead of after you. Making my own plans is fine, but I can't inconvenience all the people you come in contact with. I'd feel bad."  
  
"Yeah, I know." Jean lets go of Nino, mouth turned down. "You're coming with me to the airport though, right?"  
  
Nino walks over to get Jean's suitcase. He opens the door, motioning for Jean to exit. "You need to ask?"  
  
His pout fleetingly turns into a smile.  
  
The taxi ride to the airport is quiet, marked only by the engine's mumble, the stutters of the tires going over cracks on the road, the muted whooshes of cars they share the freeway with. Jean, pulled by Nino into a loose one-armed side hug, rests his head on his chest. Nino's turtleneck is thick and soft.  
  
Jean huffs a laugh.  
  
"Hmm?" Nino says.  
  
"You and your turtlenecks."  
  
"Hey, they're warm and comfortable. I like them."  
  
"I know you do." Jean shifts so he can hug Nino back. "I'll miss them."  
  
"Just them?" Nino asks, a lilt from a smile in his voice.  
  
Jean turns his head up. Nino is, indeed, smiling. Naturally, he smiles back. "Just them."  
  
Nino chuckles.  
  
Traffic at this time is nonexistent, and they get to the airport sooner than Jean expected. Nino hauls the suitcase out of the taxi's trunk for him. Jean thanks him, Nino replies in kind, and they simply stand there a moment, ignoring the airport behind them.

Jean allows himself a full glance-over at Nino, feet to head. When he reaches his face, and sees how it is Nino looks at him - smiling, eyes crinkled, features softened - his heart and soul overtake him.

He hugs Nino tightly, burying his face on his chest. "I love you very much and I'm going to miss you," he says, voice partly muffled.  
  
Nino returns the hug, putting his chin on top of Jean's head. "I love you and will miss you too. Pretty sure that's what you said. I mean, I hope."  
  
Jean laughs, a tiny shaky thing. He pulls back, linking his fingers through Nino's. "Since Pranetta's time is behind Badon's, I'll call you on our anniversary."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Also on the other days."  
  
A smile so tender it makes Jean's throat thick. "Of course."  
  
Nino leans in, close-eyed, kissing him long and sweet, and Jean with a touch of desperation. It is a kiss that will keep Jean's lips tingling these days he'll spend alone.  
  
They part hesitantly.  
  
"Well," Jean says, wanting to stay but having no other excuse. He wraps his hand around his suitcase handle. It's cold. "Remember my return flight gets here around 11 pm."

"Yes."

"Bye for now."  
  
"Bye. Stay warm."  
  
Jean vaguely nods and heads for the airport doors, suitcase wheels clicking as they roll over cement and then, inside the airport, tile. The sound the suitcase makes is lost within the airport hubbub. For all these sounds and all these people, Jean feels alone.  
  
_But I'm not actually alone_ , he tells himself when seated on the plane, gently twisting the gold ring on his left hand. _I have someone to come home to_. He leans his head on the small window, disinterestedly watching outside. _I just wish I didn't have to leave at all_.

* * *

Because Jean often makes district-hopping flights, jet lag doesn't drag him down. Going on a single audit after a substantial break, however, and to the westernmost district, has him stepping out from the plane blinking blearily at the time-defying sun as high up in the sky as he had left it.  
  
He slowly breathes in the dry desert air, crisp with winter but tinged with the promise of sun.

Next is a bus ride.  
  
He lets out the air he'd inhaled as steady as cigarette smoke.  
  
Later, awoken by the absence of the engine's rumbles, disoriented at seeing it is earlier than what his body says it should be, driven by an ACCA employee to town, and shown to his hotel, Jean collapses on the bed. He allows himself to be useless like that for a minute. Then, with a groan, he sits up and walks over to his suitcase, zipping it open for his change of clothes.  
  
The very first thing lying on top of what he'd packed is a brown envelope he definitely did not put there.  
  
He frowns, reaching for it. _I swear, if there's a cigarette in there, I'm quitting ACCA and going home_.  
  
But it doesn't appear to be a repeat of that uncertain time. Holding the envelope up to the light, he can see it has thin rectangular papers inside. Had Nino put this here when he hadn't noticed?  
  
Jean turns it over. His name is written on the back in Nino's thin, elegantly slanted writing.  
  
Curious, he tears open the envelope. Three sealed letters flutter out. He grabs one and reads today's date on it. He looks at the other two; one is dated for tomorrow, and one for the day after that.  
  
He goes back to the bed, peels open the seal on today's letter, and reads.  

_Dear Jean,_

_I wasn't sure whether to open this with 'Dear' or not. On the one hand, it's what letters are supposed to start out with. On the other, we're married; I can just start writing what I want to say. But you're also, of course, very dear to me, so I decided to start with it after all._

_Here is what I am sure your thought process was, seeing an envelope in your things: I didn't put that there, so where did this come from?_ _→_ _God damn it, there's not another coup, is there?_ _→_ _Oh, it's just from my favorite person in the world._

Jean chuckles to himself. 

_Now you're probably wondering why I put letters in your suitcase when we can call or text. You're not going to be surprised when I tell you it's because I thought it was romantic. There's something I like more about writing by hand on paper than tapping digital words. You're holding it now where this was physically under my hand. We're connected that way, despite the distance. Being apart for our anniversary, I thought this would be nice. If I can't be by your side, a little part that was with me can._

_I wrote a letter for each day you'll be away, so you can pretend I'm there for every day we're apart._

_Today, it hasn't been long since we last saw each other (and maybe you even called/texted me when you got to Pranetta, but if not, I'm not mad. It's a tiring trip; get your rest), but know I already miss you a lot. I'm so used to being around you that when I'm not, I'm lost. I used to be able to function when there was an insurmountable distance between us - everything I wanted was built on a wish, and there's nothing flimsier than that; everything that was was impeded by societal hierarchy, and that is stronger than steel. That somehow we broke that because you wanted still astounds me. You never pushed me away like I'd fully expected and accepted. Even knowing I had lied, you still wanted me around. You, in the end, wanted exactly what I did. I have to touch my ring often to make sure any of this is real. And if it wasn't, I would never want to wake up._

_You're my best friend and my other half. I could not have fallen in love with anyone else._

_Always yours,_

_Nino_

What follows is perfect blankness, too much of it. Jean stares at it, willing more precious ink to appear. Hunched over to read, he's acutely aware of his heart beating in his chest at an unnatural angle and with unnatural heaviness. He runs his thumb over Nino's name, feeling the creaminess of the paper, the tiniest indents his name makes. His smile hurts.  
  
He lets himself fall on his back, air going out of him, as he blindly unpockets his phone. He pulls up Nino's number and eyes the single bar of service he gets out here.  
  
_That better be enough_ , he thinks, pressing it.  
  
Nino picks up right away - in the fraction of a second before he speaks, Jean imagines that Nino had had his phone by him all day, that he'd kept constant watch on it so when it buzzed, he could pick up without making Jean wait. Or himself.  
  
"Hey, you," Nino says, smiling a coast away. The line crackles, but that would never keep Jean from discerning Nino's every detail. "Can you hear me? You in Pranetta?"  
  
"I can mostly hear you, and yes," Jean answers, his own smile having been steady. "I'm in my hotel."  
  
"Get something to eat and then get some rest, okay?"  
  
"I will." He turns on his side. "I just read your letter."  
  
"Oh?" Nino says, falsely carefully guarded - of course he knows Jean loved it.  
  
Jean laughs. "Stop that. You're the best husband of all time."  
  
"No," Nino says. "That would be you."  
  
"No, it's definitely you." He rolls on his back, bringing the letter to his heart. "I wouldn't have thought of doing this. My plan was to complain to you about this trip daily until I got back. And then we'd have sex for two whole days."  
  
"It's not like we can't do any of that anyway," Nino breezily says.  
  
Jean smirks at his phone. "You're right."  
  
Nino says something, but the static flurries and Jean doesn't catch it. It seems to happen on Nino's end, too, because Jean does hear a buzzy _What?_   from his end 

"The line's breaking up. I don't know what you said," Jean says, covering one of his ears to hear better.

 "... can't … you … you hear … though?"

 "I can't hear you much. I'm hanging up. Love you." 

That gets across, though likely broken, as Nino replies, "Bye … you too."

The ensuing silence is stifling. Jean doesn't sit up immediately, letting the conversation sink in, stilted as it ended. He holds the letter up. The ceiling light makes it glow, every paper fiber visible in mottles, every black word sharp.

 _But_ , he thinks, barely aware that he brings his left hand up, his ring touching his lips, _I have this_. 

* * *

The next morning, he sheds the film of sleep as soon as he opens his eyes, his very first thought being _I need to read Nino's letter._ He throws the covers off and almost trips over himself in his hurry.

 _Dear Jean,_  

 _Are you by yourself right now? If not, put this down and read it when you are. Trust me on it._  

 _For this letter, I'm going to tell you what I like about you._  

 _Oh_ , Jean thinks, warmth bright on his cheeks. 

Of the two of them, Nino has always been the one better at speaking, at weaving thoughts to words. Jean sometimes keeps his thoughts unwoven, but it's never been a problem: Nino can tell their pattern instinctively. When he does speak, it's direct and blunt. Nino takes his time, weighing every word - what he says, or does not say, means something. It tends to mean a lot. And with it written instead, he has more freedom to express himself. 

Jean might be fully red by the time he finishes reading it. 

He purses his mouth and continues:

 _It would be easy to sum it up as 'everything,' but that would be boring. There aren't enough trees to write down every one of those things, either. I should have probably said I'll tell you a few things I like about you. The things I like most._  

_I like your eyes. I don't just mean their color (a clear blue. Light like an afternoon sky in the summer. But did you know, under the right light, they get a little purple?). They droop somewhat, and it makes you look disinterested in what's going on around you, like you're about to fall asleep. I know that's not really a compliment. I just think it's funny because it's true. It's cute, anyway, so it is a compliment in its own way. When you look at me, they widen, they wrinkle at the corners from your smile, they glitter. When you look at me, I hate to blink because it means missing this, even for an insignificant moment. Your eyes are finally on mine and I don't want them on anyone else._

_I like your smile. Smiles, really. You wear different kinds for different occasions. There's your polite smile, for people you don't know very well. An everyday social smile. I wouldn't say I like this one, necessarily: I like that you have one, because it means you reserve better smiles for me. Like your soft smile. That one is for people you especially like, namely Lotta and me. Sometimes it's accompanied with a scoff just as soft, like you can't believe what I've done to make you smile. Sometimes it's silent, and it blooms like magic: it wasn't there, now it is. It's that one that takes my breath away. There is also your smug smile. Something goes your way and you preen. I like when you're bold, so it should not be a wonder that your smirk pointed at me weakens me._  

 _I like your hands. Slender and bony, like a pianist's hands. You don't play the piano. You play me, instead. I much prefer that. When your hands are not on me, or shadowed in mine, they're likely holding a cigarette. You make smoking look good. I know it's not healthy, but I can never bring myself to stop you._  

 _I like that you're a terrible liar. Lying shouldn't be an easy thing. This is coming from me, yes, but I really mean that. We both know how it can hurt. You can't deceive people without giving yourself away - turning pink, looking away, unable to stand still - and I admire it. Besides, it's cute, too._  

_I like that you can't hold your liquor. You also get pink here. It's a good color on you. Your eyes get glossy and wide and your words are more blunt than usual, even though they blend into each other kind of nonsensically at times. You have no inhibitions when you're drunk. It's you, condensed and free. And cute._

_I like that you keep to your values. If you weren't a quiet, loyal, unassuming man, I wouldn't have been able to follow you as I did, nor as devotedly. But because I knew who you were, and because I could read you like a favorite novel, I and the people around you - even those not in your immediate periphery - could support you. And we still do. But, of course, no one holds you up like me. The rings we slid on each other's fingers are our proof of it._

_I might like that you said 'yes' best of all._

_XOXOXO_

_Nino_

Jean turns the letter down as if the right-side up will burn him if he looks at it any longer. In a way, it has burned him; he can feel the heat strong on his face and at his fingertips. Though alone, he covers his face with one hand. There might be a hand-shaped char on his skin later.

"Did he really have to sign off like that?" he mumbles to himself, smile wobbly.

He gets ready for today's audit quickly, like spending too much time on any one place will singe the floor beneath him. Despite his own body doing very well at keeping his temperature high, he puts on a scarf like he promised Nino.

Before leaving his room to have breakfast, he organizes his belongings and puts both opened letters, as well as the last unread one, zipped safely inside his suitcase. He heads for the door. And he hesitates.

 _I'll take today's letter with me_ , he thinks, walking over to his suitcase to take it. He pockets it inside his coat on the side over his heart. _To keep me going._

Jean's smile is firmly on his face as he leaves.

It remains through breakfast and the audit itself. A few times he's asked what the cause for his good mood is, and he shakes his head, expression wistful, and says it's private. From time to time he pats his coat, heart beating against his connection to Nino.

When it's time for lunch and he and Pranetta's crew go out, he goes to get a table for everyone while they order for themselves and him. His reason for doing so is to be able to read the letter again. Elbows on the table, thumbs carefully running along the paper's margins, he lets Nino's writing - simple and straight from the heart - flutter inside him again.

"What are you reading, sir?"

Jean straightens and hastily folds the letter before shoving it in his pocket.

One of the Pranetta workers eyes him curiously.

"Nothing."

"Oh, I thought it was work-related. Sorry. We ordered. It'll be a twenty-minute wait."

"That's fine," Jean says, smoothing over his coat. The other employees return from ordering, chatting with each other.

 _At least only one person saw_ , he thinks. _And he doesn't know what it is._ While part of him is always happy to flaunt Nino, what he wrote was only for him. 

Back at his hotel hours later, he calls Nino and mentions the mishap.

"You really took it with you outside?" Nino asks, sounding flattered but a little surprised.

"I really liked it."

"And I'm happy you did, but I even told you to read it alone. Imagine if he'd seen. You would have been strawberry-red."

"Yes," Jean grudgingly admits, "but I really liked it, okay? I wanted it with me. If he'd seen it, his first thought would have been 'I wish someone loved me like that,' not 'my boss's husband is sappy.'"

"Oh, just the husband's sappy?" Nino's teasing smirk is obvious in Jean's ears. "Not the boss who brought the letter out in public?" This is the kind of thing he likes to do to get Jean to flusteredly refute an embarrassing truth or to flounder, pink-faced, at being unable to.

Jean knows this trick. And he still falls for it. "Leave me alone," he says, blushing. Nino may be across the country, but he still has this effect on him.

"Okay. Bye."

"No, stop, I didn't mean it and you know it."

Nino's laugh mingles with the crinkling in the line. "I know."

Jean's lip quirks up. "You suck."

"Sometimes, if it's what you want."

"Nino!"

"What? I'm by myself here. Are you?"

"Yeah, but-" He flounders now, the blush stronger. "I wasn't expecting that kind of response."

Nino laughs again. "I wish I could see your face. Hey, take a picture."

"No."

"Please?"

"It's taking my phone all it can to even call you. A picture would take too long to get to you."

"I guess I'll have to get you red again tomorrow when you're back."

" _Nino!_ "

"Think of me tonight, Jean."

Jean sets the phone down and buries his face in his hands. It's as if a sun burns beneath his skin.

Vague sounds from the phone. Gingerly, he picks it back up.

"Are you done?" Jean asks.

"From the sound of it, you can't handle anything more, so sure."

Jean blows air upward, bangs fluttering. There's a smile playing on his lips. "Thank you."

"Am I still on your good graces?"

Jean hums, pretending to think about it. "I'm not sure. I'll tell you tomorrow."

Tomorrow, of course, is their anniversary.

Nino picks up on it. "I'll happily await your answer."

"Mm-hmm." He eyes the clock. "It's late over there. Let's hang up so you get your sleep. I don't want you dozing off when you're waiting for me at the airport."

"Why not?"

"That's not romantic."

Nino laughs. "Good night, Jean."

"Good night, Nino," Jean softly says. After hanging up, he looks at Nino's contact picture. It's half of a picture, in truth, of the two of them on one of their many dates. He knows that on Nino's phone, the other half with his likeness is next to his name.

 _We're_ both _sappy_ , he thinks, smiling.

* * *

Jean wakes up to find the numbers _4:12_ glowing on the bedside clock, cutting through the black of the room. He turns on a lamp, and is already so awake, maintained by the rush of his excitement and blood, that he doesn't need to squint to slowly accustom himself to alertness. He swipes his phone and makes the call, heart in his ears as he waits for Nino to pick up. 

"Jean, it is four in the morning over there," Nino says. "What are you doing?"

"Good morning to you too. I couldn't sleep any more." He balances the phone in the crook of his neck, freed hand gently twisting his wedding ring. "We've been married a year now, Nino." His voice is soft, fitting for the early morning. "It's really been a year."

"It feels like a dream, doesn't it?" Nino's voice is quiet too, and yet full of affection.

"A little. They say to marry your best friend, right? You said it yourself, I'm your best friend and you are mine. This was the only way it could have been." He glances at the phone, smiling at it as if Nino is here beside him. "Happy anniversary, Nino. I'm as much in love with you today as I was one year ago. I will be too next year, and the year after that, and after _that_..."

Nino exhales. "You're the best thing that ever happened to me, Jean. I didn't think I'd ever be this happy. No one has ever been this happy, I don't think." He exhales again. "I don't have the words to tell you how much you mean to me because there _are_ no words to express the depth to which I love you, have loved you, and will love you for the rest of our lives."

Jean is sure that across the country, the sun above Badon glinting through their apartment's windows catches on the tiniest welled-up tears in the corners of Nino's eyes.

"Happy anniversary," Nino finishes.

Jean holds the phone properly to his ear and leans back against the headboard, smile bigger. "You're wrong about one thing. You do have the words. I've liked your letters a lot."

"Have you read today's?"

"No. I wanted to hear you first. You have the nicest voice."

"Do I?"

"Yes, and when you pick me up later today, you're gonna have to catch me so I don't fall when you say, in person, that you missed me."

Nino chuckles.

Jean lets out a happy, though somewhat tired, sigh. "In like… twelve hours, I'll see you."

"You woke up too early, I'm telling you. Are you done auditing?"

"Yeah. As big as it is, Pranetta is still a simple district. Even with the small population growth." He burrows under the covers, closing his eyes. "Better for me. Less work."

"Are you falling asleep on me? It sounds like you're falling asleep on me."

Jean peeks open an eye, half expecting Nino to stand by the bed, admonishing him lightheartedly. "Maybe a little."

"Get more sleep, okay? It's not like I'm going anywhere. Wake up when you're fully rested and then we can talk more. Or not, if you want to save all the incredibly interesting things that'll happen to you within the next twelve hours for when I pick you up."

His smile is lopsided and drowsy. "Okay. I'm going to kiss my ring now."

"Huh?"

Jean switches the phone to the other side so that he can raise his left hand to his lips. "Okay, I kissed it. Did you feel that?"

Nino's laugh is soft. "Yeah, I did. I'll do the same." A pause, and Jean swears the skin beneath his wedding ring tingles. "There. It's like I'm actually kissing you."

"Mm-hmm. Talk to you later. Love you."

"I love you, too."

He sleeps and dreams of blessed nothing, getting his rest on its own sweet time. Because the town is underground, sunlight doesn't fill the room and reach his body to tell him it is morning. But when he wakes again, though the room is unchanged, it feels brighter. The _7:03_ on the clock confirms it.

He doesn't spare a moment in getting out of bed to read Nino's last letter, something happy and something melancholy swirling in his chest.

_Dear Jean,_

_Today I'll be seeing you, so maybe there isn't logic in writing this, but you said you liked my sentimentality. Here we are, then._

_Anyway, it's the actual day of our anniversary. Commemorating that on paper as well as just living through it is nice. Memories can fade and change slightly over time, but paper is forever. So are pictures. That's part of why I like photography._

_The inkblot you see at the start of this sentence is where I had my pen on the paper too long without writing. I was thinking, not for the first time nor for the last time, that we're married. I didn't know whether to write that because maybe you're tired of hearing it, but it's so… I don't know. Inconceivable? I wish I could go back and tell my younger self that everything would work out perfectly in the end. I would tell him that everything he knew would be defied and flipped, not without pain, but that what he saw when he closed his eyes would be there when he opened them again._

_None of what happened between us was supposed to happen, but it did. I take time to treasure this impossibility a lot. How many people can say they have exactly what they always wanted? And how many wanted something they knew was unreachable, yet still found it? Not many, I'd think. I love you and you love me back. That's all I need._

_It's easy now to tell and write 'I love you,' but for years I had to keep that to myself._

_Like when you passed your ACCA entrance exam. You were so happy, you were glowing. I knew how much work you'd put into studying for it. I was terribly proud as well as terribly taken with your smile. I said the former only._

_Like when we'd go out drinking. You would ramble about anything - it was you at your bluntest. And pinkest. That I still wanted to tell you I loved you says everything. Actually, I confess I did once. You were completely passed out, so I carried you home. I put you on a sofa, threw a blanket over you, looked at you curled up on yourself with your hair a mess, and while I fixed it I just kind of said those three simple words. Even though I knew you were dead asleep, part of me was afraid you'd heard that, and I got no sleep myself that night. But you really didn't hear. I'd never known a more bitter relief._

_Like when I told you the truth about me. If you knew who I was, I had nothing to lose by confessing the depth of what I felt for you because I was certain you were already never going to want to see me again. Telling you I loved you was a tiny thought that came unbidden, maybe from how tired I was of the lies. And it went unsaid when I swallowed it back down because maybe, just possibly, you would consider keeping me in your life. I couldn't ruin us any more than I had already._

_Like when I jumped in front of a gun and woke up to find you at my side. I know I brushed off what I did, but I didn't have much of an option. Then you tore down the remaining bricks I'd put around myself. I was supposed to know you the best out of everyone, and I didn't, because I was not expecting your candidness or your pain. Bullets have nothing on how it hurt to see you upset because of me. It would have been easy to say 'I'm sorry,' but it also would have been cheap; you know I don't regret taking the bullets for you. I chose to do that. It was a lot harder to say 'I did this because I love you.' I wanted to. It was in the back of my throat. I couldn't get it out, though. I don't know if I regret staying silent about it - I doubt it would have made things smoother for you then, given the political mess - but it was on my mind._

_Or like when I found you, instead. Tucked away in a bar like always. I didn't need to look around to see where you were. I knew right away. You're my compass, in a way; I know who I am because I can orient myself in your direction. I was free and the very thing I'd failed to tell you wanted to be, too. But it didn't feel right to say so there. I do regret that; we could have gotten together sooner if I hadn't doubted myself or what you would do. What I'm forever thankful for is that it was not my last opportunity to tell you. We wouldn't be here, otherwise._

_Those are just a few occasions. I was afraid or foolish many, many times. But for all the times I couldn't tell you I loved you, now I can do it every day._

_So, Jean. I love you._

_Nino_

Jean lets his eyes linger on the last sentence. He reads it another time, turning over each word, each thin line and curve, as if this is something he has never seen before. A thick buoyancy blocks his airway. If he spoke, it would hurt, and his heart might bumble out.

He folds the letter, neatly, and closes his eyes. Nino is a coast away, but Jean can see him clearly in his mind, down to each fiber in his usual black turtleneck.

 _Nino_ , he thinks, smile hurting his cheeks from its intensity, _you're more than everything to me_.

He becomes aware of his ring, cool smoothness stark on his warm skin. He opens his eyes to look at it.

 _I don't just want to kiss the ring. I want to kiss him_. His skin is warmer and almost too taut on his frame. _I want him_.

He turns to look at the clock. He should be getting ready to leave and pack up. He does gladly.

Done with that, he glances over his room, mentally checking that he hasn't forgotten anything. When he's certain he hasn't, he texts Nino - it's more impersonal, but it's quicker.

_About to leave the hotel. First is a bus. Service is even worse there so I'll tell you when my flight actually leaves._

_Okay. Safe travels._

Jean smiles to himself through the bumpy ride to the border all the way to the airport. He finds a seat in the boarding area, watching the planes beyond the window come and go, his heart tripling its normal beat.

 _Almost home_ , he thinks, biting the inside of his lip to keep his smile, worn here in public, from getting any bigger.

He's lost in thought about stepping foot on Badon's ground; about walking through the exit gates, suitcase trailing behind him; about seeing Nino and running to him, jumping in his arms like something from a movie and then being held down by those arms on a bed dipping to his shape. He's lost in thought and misses the first boarding call. It takes a polite flight attendant tapping him on the shoulder and asking if his flight is the Badon 11:20 am for him to shuffle on board, sending Nino a brief text.

The flight is roughly six hours, time that could be spent getting more sleep, but Jean feels well-rested. Maybe too much. He can barely stand to blink; he needs to watch these rocks and sand give way to grasslands, to forest, to sea, to city: flickers of the nation's land that leads to Nino. They come in tiny, almost indiscernible patches, such that he's having to guess and imagine what district he is over rather than knowing for certain. But his daydreams on what he'll do the moment he's home make the flight pass by quicker.

It's when they're over Badon airspace, the sky outside the window having blackened without him realizing it, the glowing sprawl of the city at nighttime looking like spilled gold ink, that reality hits him.

_Nino is waiting for me somewhere down there._

This high up, roads are thin lines marked as if by a stick dragged across the earth, and cars are fireflies bobbing over them. This high up, a person is too small to be seen, even if that person is the whole world. Jean can't see anyone, but they're living their lives as always, unaware of how small they are in the grand scheme of things. And the moment he's on the ground, the loftiness of the heavens will be distant, his life resumed to what he can immediately see and hear and touch. It might not be the view of a god above, but for a person, and a person who's found the meaning to their life, it's godlike anyway. Euphoria sweeps over him.

_My husband is down there._

His antsiness returns when they land. Every second that slips by waiting to disembark, to get his luggage, to head at the arrival gate, is a second that's not spent how he wants but that brings him close to what he does.  

He walks so fast it doesn't feel like his feet ever leave the ground; he glides, not a step wasted, suitcase wheels thrumming on the carpet struggling to keep up with his pace, eyes steadfast beyond the glass exit doors as he searches for Nino.

He finds him, wearing that dumb lovable turtleneck and a scarf, leaning against a pillar.

It could be wishful thinking, but Jean is certain Nino notices him and smiles.

His pace quickens more, and the door sensor stutters a moment in recognizing someone is there. Jean glowers at it - it isn't even a second that the doors hesitate to open, but glower and drum his fingers on his suitcase handle he does - and they open. He rushes out, opposing the air rushing in.

Nino definitely looks at him, definitely smiles at him.

Jean's anxious glide turns to a run; who cares, the most important person in the world is there for him, like always, even at this late hour. _Clack-clack-clack_ whines the suitcase now rolling on tile, now falling with a muffled thump where Jean drops it to jump straight at Nino.

Nino catches him, arms around his waist, hoisting him up, a tiny huff from the sudden effort blowing in Jean's ear, their combined momentum making Nino stagger back.

"I missed you, too," Nino quietly laughs, turning his cheek.

Jean, arms wrapped around Nino's neck, buries his face in it, scarf tickling him, and takes a deep breath in of laundry detergent and faint aftershave, things anyone could buy but that his senses say _This is Nino._

Nino puts him down, and Jean looks up levelly at him, all soft smiles and fine eye lines. Butterflies flit in Jean's chest just as they did a year ago. Really, they're never going to leave.

"What?" Nino asks, raising an amused eyebrow.

Some butterflies fly out with Jean's exhale. "I'm home," he says, tugging Nino down by his scarf to kiss him with the fierceness of his absence, of what today means, of the overwhelming truth of his statement: of what - _who_ \- home is, here before him, under his fingertips at last.

Nino's momentary surprise soon gives way to a tight embrace, a quirk of the lip that Jean can taste, a love deeply reciprocated.

Running out of breath when kissing Nino is a flutter of its own, a dizziness Jean willingly seeks. He pulls back hesitantly to breathe in, though he keeps close to Nino, forehead to forehead.  
  
"When we're home," he murmurs, one hand trailing down Nino's chest while the other bunches on the scarf's end, "I need you to pin me to bed."

Nino's lip quirk turns devious. "And what else?"

Eyes half-lidded, he leans back in so that as he speaks, Nino hears and feels the way his mouth moves. "I won't have paper and pen like you, but I can tell you all that I want just the same."

Nino lightly curls his hand around Jean's low on his body and brings it, precisely at the wedding ring, to his lips. "I know I'll like what you say."

The warmth of his blood surges. He smirks, pleased and coy.

Nino disentangles himself and steps around Jean. "We should get your suitcase, though," he says, bending to take it.

Jean blinks. "I'd kind of forgotten about it. Thanks."

"Yeah, just like I think you 'kind of' forgot we're at an airport right now."

"Kind of." He grins. "But who cares? Let people hear. We're married and you're going to take me home to-"

" _Jean,_ " Nino says, immediately closing the distance between them to clamp a hand over Jean's mouth.

Jean removes his hand. "You say that like you weren't flirting back."

"Okay, but I wasn't being so brazen."

"Whatever. You're guilty, too." He loops an arm around Nino's, smiling up at him, seeing himself and all his affection reflected in Nino's eyes. "Take me home now, please."

Nino sighs, but the way he looks at Jean is as adoring as ever. "If you promise you won't climb all over me in the cab."

Jean slowly runs his hand down Nino's arm. "I can't promise that."

Nino's laugh, throaty and genuine, soothes and completes him more than a cigarette ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for jess who wanted [this](https://twitter.com/jessinbooks/status/1110657089687441410)
> 
> did yall know paper is the traditional gift for a first wedding anniversary. i didn't until i was about halfway thru w/ this. further proof ninojean is extremely real
> 
> i'm putting this on a hold so i can get my ass in gear and work on my longfic of them actually getting married, but i have the attention span of a mouse and will probably bust out one-shots anyway. please kick me if i do


	47. gravity

Jean smooths down the blanket for Nino before he sits down. Nino knows this was a polite gesture not given much thought to, but a smile appears on his face regardless.

"Thank you," he says, joining Jean on the balcony floor, conscious of the distance he should keep from him yet failing to do so: Nino's hand and knee brush Jean's, a nanosecond of fire, and now he has no choice but to remain where he is lest it be obvious he meant to sit farther. Within the thin air separating them, Jean's body heat travels and reaches Nino, feeling like contact despite there being none at all.

Jean, of course, has not noticed. "Sure," he says, eyes back on the Badon night sky.

Nino hadn't been very optimistic about the meteor shower being visible in the city, with its perpetually lit skyline fogging night's true colors, obscuring the stars.

The number of stars presently on that purple-black nothingness are few enough he can count them in one hand, and the empty new moon makes it all gloomier. He'd wanted to go far outside the city to properly photograph the meteor shower, but had seen how Jean's jaw had subtly set when he'd mentioned traveling for today.

 _But I guess a meteor shower in the city is unique, too_ , he'd quickly conceded, and Jean had quirked his lip up. So he'd stayed home because Jean is the body Nino orbits around, helplessly lovesick in this path he cannot and does not want to escape from.

"When's it supposed to start, again?" Jean asks, inspecting the sky for anything brighter than the dim pinpricks that are the stars.

Nino checks his phone. "Ten minutes or so."

Jean nods. "If you want to get anything to eat or drink before it, feel free," he says, motioning with his head to his apartment behind them.

"Thanks, but I'm good." He thumbs his camera strap around his neck, glancing at the camera itself set up on its tripod by them. "I don't want to be away."

Something so minute as to have possibly been a figment of Nino's imagination changes in Jean's clear eyes.

"From seeing the sky," Nino continues, fingers taut on the camera strap. "Don't wanna miss anything. You know."

Jean nods again, slowly this time, looking back to the horizon.

Nino bites the tip of his tongue, busying himself with his already-perfect camera settings for the sake of having something to do.

For almost the entirety of his friendship with Jean, he'd been good at hiding who he really was. He'd had to. That his façade has crumbled away and left him awfully prone to saying these sorts of things is laughable. He no longer needs to overthink everything he says or does, and it has made him careless. It was one thing to finally let Jean know who he was – a thing he'd desperately wanted to do, a thing he's beyond thankful is out now. But telling Jean this final secret, those three little words neatly stowed away somewhere deep in his heart, isn't something Nino is ready for yet.

Snippets of it slip from him anyway, but he can't really control that. Jean's pull on him is too strong.

"There," Jean says, startling Nino by grabbing his elbow's crook. The lithe shape of his fingers burn into him, and Nino doesn't look up but down.

As sudden as Jean's touch had been, he quickly withdraws his hand. "Never mind," he mumbles, "it was an airplane."

Now Nino flits his eyes up. A blinking white dot makes a gentle downward arc.

A laugh sputters from him.

"Hey. Don't be mean," Jean says, nudging his knee, but he's also trying not to smile.

"Sorry, but how did you mistake that for a shooting star?"

"I don't know. Leave me alone."

"Fine," Nino says, absently rubbing the inside of his elbow, "I'll be going now."

"You know I didn't mean it literally."

Nino's heart tilts on its own axis as he smiles to himself. _I know._

"Will your pictures come out okay?" Jean asks, folding his hands on his lap. "I'm not doubting your photography skills; I know you're very good, but because it's night and Badon has light pollution, I thought..."

"They'll be fine," Nino replies. Reading between the lines, he adds, "I don't regret staying here to see the meteor shower."

Jean's shoulders relax.

"I can even test my camera out before the real thing," Nino says, taking it from the tripod to snap a picture of the sky. He shows the viewfinder to Jean, leaning in close so he can see, the points of contact with him now along Nino's entire side.

"That does look nice," he says, meeting Nino's eyes.

Lost in Jean's earnest gaze, it takes Nino a moment to find his voice again. "I'm glad you think so."

Jean hums, looking back to the sky. His profile is yellow-white from Badon's synthetic glow, and where his face is shadowed there nature's own darkness huddles.

Nino's hands move of their own to take his picture.

The sound of the shutter catches Jean's attention. He raises an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth. "You're supposed to focus on the sky, not me."

"I can do both."

"You see me pretty much every day. What's better about pictures of me than pictures of a meteor shower?"

 _Everything._ "Well," he says, putting the camera back on the tripod, "it hasn't started yet."

"Oh. Yeah."

There's something in his voice Nino doesn't recognize, but he doesn't know how to ask about it, or even if he should. He watches the sky instead, waiting for the spectacle.

"I think I saw something," Jean announces.

Nino squints at the sky. "Where?"

"Over..." Jean says, taking Nino's hand to gently pull his arm in the right direction. He extends his forefinger. "...there."

Jean's hand is smaller than his, his touch light, but it seems to have enough force to crush Nino's lungs. He flicks his eyes between it and the sky, still perfectly black.

While looking at Jean's hand on his, he sees tiny movement from the corner of his eye. He turns his head up.

A white dot grows in intensity before falling off the sky, trailing a conical blur, winking out of existence a breath later.

Jean takes his hand back. Nino immediately misses it.

"That fell really quick," Jean says. "Did the camera catch it?"

"Probably," Nino mumbles, moving the camera more in the direction Jean had pointed at. "If not, it will now."

A couple of quiet minutes pass before the next meteor burns into and out of life, wanting to reach the ground, but forces beyond it - more powerful than it could hope to be - cannot be overcome. So it disintegrates in the heavens, a silver blaze succumbed.

Jean leans back, hands flat on the blanket, the tip of his little finger touching Nino's, grounding him. "They're not coming as fast as I thought, but they're still pretty. Especially for being in the city."

Nino clears his throat. "Yeah."

"It's supposed to last a long time, right?"

"Technically it lasts a few weeks, but we can't see much except for a few nights."

"So," Jean says, soft as the night, "is it alright with you if we're out here until dawn?"

Nino's mouth parts before his better senses tell him to speak. "Yes," he says. "I'm alright with it."

Jean smiles at him, private and sentimental, his little finger curling around Nino's.

Nino, insides weightless, holds Jean's back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i said i'd be staying away from this to work on longfic but consider the fact that in the book i'm reading atm there was poetic astronomy talk that made me go damn there's a gay fic metaphor in there somewhere, and also consider the fact that i am a clown


	48. together

"Can you move your plate a bit, Jean?" Lotta asks, sitting at the dining room table. "I don't have room for my tea."

He'd had his head craned in the kitchen's direction, where Nino still is, but he turns to her now, if a bit startled. "Hm? Oh. Sure. Sorry."

His plate makes a high-pitched sound as he drags it aside until she can snugly fit her cup. She cringes at it; he's unaffected.

"Thank you," she says, but he's back to eyeing Nino, his head supported by his hand at his neck.

Lotta blows air out of her nose more forcefully than usual, a corner of her mouth quirking up. "He's gonna be here in a minute, you know."

Jean glances back at her. "What's that?"

"Nothing." She drizzles syrup on her pancakes, the glob of butter at the top twirling slowly, trying to keep her smile from growing.

"Found them," Nino says, bringing a bowl of blueberries over, setting it down as he takes his seat by Lotta and in front of Jean, who'd traced his path here with his eyes.

Lotta resists an affectionate eyeroll. She thanks Nino instead, dropping a few blueberries on her pancakes as she dutifully cuts the stack.

Peaceful silence falls on their morning meal dotted by Lotta's cutlery working. She looks up, wondering why she's seemingly the only one eating.

It's because they're just _gaz_ _ing_ at each other, mugs in hand but coffee going cold; Jean has the cup to his lips but he's not doing anything except smiling and looking at Nino like they didn't spend every day and night together. Nino's no better; he doesn't even bother pretending to drink as he leans on the table, body angled to Jean, expression sappier than the actual syrup Lotta covered her food with.

She can't keep a smile away anymore, though it's tinged with fond exasperation. "It's eight in the morning, you guys."

Jean finally decides to sip his coffee. Then he gives her a questioning look. "Yes? I know."

"What about it being eight?" Nino adds.

She sighs. "Never mind," she mumbles, eating her pancakes.

Jean's attention is back to Nino's. "Aren't you eating anything?"

"I'm not very hungry."

"If you change your mind, you can take stuff from my plate."

Nino gives Jean the smile that Lotta has noticed is reserved only for him. "I know."

Lotta pointedly focuses on the piece of pancake at the end of her fork.

"Oh," Jean says. "Nino, I think we're going to need a new mattress."

Lotta does not miss Nino's urgent side-eye in her direction, nor how Jean's eyes widen the slightest the instant he's done speaking.

"Because, uh, it's... old?" Jean unconvincingly continues.

"We can go shopping later," Nino immediately says. He turns to her. "How about yours, Lotta? If you've had the same one since you were little, maybe we should get you a bigger one."

"Mine's fine, but thank you."

Lotta's not little anymore, so she knows what Jean and Nino dating entails. But she still really doesn't want to think about it.

"Nino, seriously, eat something," Jean says, pushing his plate full of eggs and bacon and toast toward him. "I feel weird having all this food and you're just having coffee."

"I'm not hungry." He winks. "I had enough last night. You couldn't really eat, though, so do so now."

The silence that falls on the table now is not the soft kind of earlier. Lotta is trying very much to ignore Nino's lapse, but from the corner of her eye she sees Jean getting pink and slack-jawed and there's no helping these two, is there.

"Like, dinner," Nino says, his tone at least not rising into an uncertain questioning of his own believability. "I had dinner and you didn't because I got food you don't like much." It's the quickness of his reply that gives him away.

"Yes, what else would it be?" And there goes Jean making it worse.

Lotta purses her lips, not knowing whether to giggle or groan.

She opts for a change of subject.

"Did I mention that next school year, a business elective is being offered? I think I'm gonna take it! It could help me with managing the building."

"Hey, that sounds fantastic," Nino says, appearing relieved at her save. "You're very grown-up."

"We could hire someone to help," Jean suggests. "You do most of the work, but you're still young. And a student. Do you even like it? I never asked..."

She nods emphatically. "Yeah! I think I'll study something like this once I go to college."

"That's coming up, huh?" Jean muses to himself, smiling.

Nino pats her head. "I remember when you used to come up to my knee. Time flies."

Lotta has a vivid memory of being three, clinging to Nino's knee, telling him not to leave their house. Jean had chuckled as Nino carefully pried her off him and promised he'd be back very soon if they'd let him. Both Jean and Lotta had said _Yes_ , and Nino's glasses had gone up from his beatific smile.

They'd overkept the promise, if anything, but Lotta is happy for it. The meaning of home had never changed. It had gotten stronger. And who knows, maybe when Nino and Jean marry (it'll happen; she knows this like the sky is blue) they'll want to adopt, and home will get a little bigger, a little stronger yet.

She'll still need to take convenient time away from home, of course. The two of them need their privacy. But she can't see herself leaving them or this building. Home is home.

While she'd been lost in thought, Nino had taken his hand away and twined it with Jean's. They're eating breakfast and they're holding hands.

She ends up giggling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said [this](https://twitter.com/greenhillyang/status/1129372644833452033) and was [rightfully called out](https://twitter.com/bean_pots/status/1129374461151535104) bc i wrote this, didn't i
> 
> lotta clinging to nino is [another real thing](https://66.media.tumblr.com/badcd02d70e39c7e5ce3d6da5190045f/tumblr_prnvvyyM8j1sdji64o1_540.jpg). yes i like writing about official art to make ninojean more real so sue me


	49. fermentation

Drinks at the end of the work week were usually taken in one of the city's many bars, under flattering lighting that didn't let anyone see anything they didn't want to, with the murmuring backdrop of half and fully drunk conversations, sitting on and surrounded by plush furnishing to make the increasingly inebriated feel a little bit richer if for a giddy night forgotten by morning. To Nino's surprise – but far from dismay – Jean wanted to drink at his apartment, at the very last minute.

"I don't want to see any more people," Jean had explained over the phone.

"But I'm people," Nino had joked, offering Jean a polite way out of seeing him, even if he himself did not want it. This is what he does: consider Jean over himself.

"No, you're not. You're you."

It hadn't been the response Nino expected. It had weaved from his ears to his heart, and he'd sounded a little breathless when he'd said a useless, "Okay."

So Nino is outside Jean's door, hand raised to the buzzer, only now realizing maybe he should have brought something else to drink or eat; he couldn't really come in so greedily and empty-handed, could he-

"Hi," Jean answers, opening the door. He's not changed out of his work uniform, but it's rumpled. Briefly Nino wonders why, but he's distracted by the smile Jean gives him. "I saw you standing still on the camera. Why didn't you ring?"

Nino glances at his hand before slowly lowering it. "Sorry, I got lost in thought."

Jean steps aside and Nino walks in, Jean closing the door after him. "It's fine, I just thought it was kind of funny. We can go to the living room."

"Not the dining room?"

"I'm tired and want to drink while lying on my couch."

Nino smiles. "Sure, but you'll probably get wine all over your shirt."

"Good, it deserves it."

The living room table already boasts a bottle of upper mid-range wine and two glittering glasses. The television is on, playing a show Nino recognizes but doesn't follow at low volume.

"Why an expensive wine?" Nino asks, sitting at one corner of the sofa.

Jean takes the opposite corner, a cushion's worth of distance between them. He opens the bottle and pours a glass that he offers to Nino with an even gaze. "Why not?"

"Well." Nino knows Jean has lovely eyes – when Jean's attention is elsewhere, Nino will sometimes steal a look at those little pieces of sky – but right now, he can't meet them. "I mean, it's just me."

He hears the burble of wine swirling into another glass, and then the creak of Jean settling into the sofa. "That's exactly why."

Nino turns his head to him, blinking. He can understand the meaning of the words together. What he can't understand is how they fit as a reply to what he'd said. He _thinks_ he might understand, but it wouldn't make much sense. He keeps his indecision from showing on his face, as Jean takes a drink and moves the conversation on to the usual work complaints. Nino tends not to have much to contribute; his self-employment photography is exactly what he'd always wanted to do. He prioritizes Jean, anyway. He likes to hear him talk, even with something this mundane, and offer teasing comments that get Jean pinker or sympathetic smiles to get Jean's tipsy and wobbly smile in return.

He doesn't particularly have a craving for alcohol today. He takes occasional sips of his wine while Jean downs glass after glass in between his grumblings, sinking further into the sofa, tilting more to the side.

"Hey, slow down some," Nino says as Jean reaches for the bottle directly, darting out his own hand to wrap it around Jean's wrist.

Jean flits his eyes to Nino's. Phantom images from the television dance in purples and whites and blues, changing their color as Jean's expression itself stays still.

Nino loses some time like that, all senses except his perfect and unwavering sight vanishing like fog under the sun.

"Sorry," Jean says, sounding like he's speaking underwater, the word rippling up from the deep up to the top, where Nino hears it repeated in his head as clear as Jean had really said it.

Nino immediately takes his hand away, putting it limply by his side where neither Jean nor he can see it. The wine rots on his tongue.

The sofa dips where Jean curls up sideways on it, head on the middle cushion just a hair's width from Nino's thigh.

"You always wanted me to drink a lot to get stuff out of me," Jean says, twisting so he faces upward, hair fluttering. He smiles, but being upside down, the first shape Nino sees is a frown, and his heart pangs for the briefest moment before he realizes his mistake. "Are you making up for it now?"

He speaks carefully. "I don't have a reason to get you drunk anymore."

"Hmm. Here I thought you felt a smug sense of soupy- supree- of being better than me, watching me get drunk so easy."

"Maybe a little," he admits with a helpless smile that quickly fades. "But I'm not heartless, you know. I don't want you getting alcohol poisoning or something."

"I know," Jean earnestly replies, reaching back, patting the air – and, in a wild thought, Nino thinks he had he meant to touch him, that his depth perception was compromised. He doesn't know why Jean would do that, but it makes more sense than his hand touching nothing.

 _Probably_ , Nino thinks, eyes swiveling to the television as if he cared about what was on it.

He watches a scene unfold on it, having no sense of who any of the characters are, nor their story, and he can't say he enjoys the few minutes he focuses on that.

"Nino," Jean says.

He doesn't look at him right away. He should be more cautious in how he is around Jean. "Yeah?"

"Have you ever been in love?"

Time isn't lost to Nino: now, it's _stolen_ , swiped like he's had the air knocked out from him. He watches the television, these things he does not care about, so he cannot meet Jean's eyes and have all his truths borne so pathetically. And he is aware he needs to look at him, he is aware he needs to reply. But he can only hear static, and he cannot curl back his tongue to slip out a dangerous _Yes_.

He should refute. But he's lied enough for one hundred lifetimes.

_Alright. Bend the truth. Avoid it._

He turns his head to Jean, thinking his neck creaks like an old gate, that his words are as shallow and muddy as a puddle. "Define 'love.'"

Jean's eyebrows crease together with a real frown. "What do you mean? You know what love is. Everyone does."

"There are different kinds of love."

"Yeah, but I said if you've ever been in love. There's just one of that." Jean sits up and moves to Nino, folded knees bumping him, face inspecting him closely.

He swallows down manic heartbeats with difficulty. "Why the sudden question?"

"It's just 'yes' or 'no,' Nino."

At this lack of distance, Nino can taste the wine in Jean's words.

Maybe their intoxication is what gets him to say, "Yes."

Jean's sleepy eyelids go up. He leans back on one hand. "Oh."

"And you?" Nino asks, regretting it.

Jean shakes his head, and it does something curious and contradictory to Nino's heart: expanding and contracting, rising and falling. "But I'd like to, one day."

Nino finishes the rest of his wine in one go and puts the glass down louder than he'd meant to.

Jean buries his cheek into the sofa's back, still looking at Nino. "How did that end?"

"How did what end?"

Jean gives him a flat look.

Nino sighs, thin and weary. Maybe he should have let Jean drink more. Then, by tomorrow, this would all have been a blur. "Nothing ended because we never dated."

Jean blinks. "What? Why? Who wouldn't date you?"

 _You, apparently_ , Nino thinks, pursing his lips.

"Are you telling me," Jean continues, drawing a leg in, "that for all the attention you've always gotten, the one person you wanted it from didn't give it to you?"

Nino doesn't mean to laugh, yet he lets out a dry, bitter thing. He glances at the wine bottle, wondering if he could take it and finish it for himself. "Yeah."

With his free leg, Jean nudges him, lip quirking up into a smile. "Then they're stupid and don't deserve you."

Nino's inhale is sharp, cutting his airway from nose to throat to lungs like glass. He casts his eyes up to the ceiling, covers his mouth with a hand to hold back a laugh or a cry or a confession or all of them at once. He counts ten gunfire heartbeats before sliding his hand down. Then he cranes his head to Jean, wearing a smile as fake as the actors' on the ignored television screen.

"Could I have another glass?"


	50. once exchanged, forever lasting

Nino's camera bag slides down his shoulder as he fumbles with getting the keys to the door lock, his tiredness making it more difficult to open the damn thing. He'd wanted to enter quietly – Jean and Lotta are surely sleeping at this time – but if the racket he's up to is seeping through the door, they're probably not asleep anymore.

The keys fall from his hand and to the floor with a jingle, crisp and snappy.

Well. If they hadn't woken up yet, that certainly did it.

Grumbling at the keys, he bends to pick them up, knees aching, camera bag adding more weight than necessary to this movement, and as he's wondering how he's going to stand up without breaking a bone or two, the door opens from the inside.

"You could have knocked," Jean says, giving him a small smile.

Of course Nino smiles back, despite the protest in his joints as he straightens. "I thought you were asleep."

"Lotta is, but I was waiting for you to come back." He takes the camera bag from Nino. "I'll help you with that. You look really tired."

He laughs softly. "God, I am." He's not as young or nimble as he used to be.

"I'd offer to carry you like you do with me when I'm tired, but..." He looks between his arms. "We know how well that'd go."

Nino laughs again, following Jean in.

"How'd it go?" Jean asks, referring to the photography gig he'd been away at all day.

"Fine, but I'm tired. I don't know what's more tiring, actually: running around as you get married, or running around photographing two people getting married."

Jean puts the bag on a chair in their room and turns to Nino with an amused expression. "You thought getting married was tiring?"

"I mean, not the wedding itself." He takes off his shoes and flops back on the bed, closing his eyes. "The preparations for it."

The mattress dips where Jean sits next to him. "But my grandfather took care of pretty much everything."

Nino peeks open an eye at him. "Yeah, financially. I was the one fretting over the color of the tablecloth or whatever because you didn't care about the details."

"If we'd gotten married at a courthouse in our pajamas," Jean says, taking Nino's hand in his, "it still would have been a perfect wedding."

Nino closes his eye, smiling, knowing without seeing the shape of Jean's hand from how it fits in his alone. "You're too easy to please."

"Because it's you. I didn't care how, I just wanted to marry you."

"Which is why I was the one who needed to make everything perfect. That's what you deserved. And what I wanted." He sighs. "But it was nerve-wracking at times."

"I see." Jean runs his thumb over the thin skin between Nino's thumb and forefinger. "It was very worth it, though."

"Only the best for you."

He hears Jean's quiet chuckle, feels Jean's brief kiss on his forehead. "I'm gonna go brush my teeth. Get changed; don't fall asleep in that tux."

"What, is it ugly?"

Jean, already at the door, dismisses him with a wave and a small what-am-I-going-to-do-with-you laugh.

Nino changes, though his limbs feel like they're about to fall off as he does. He can't be bothered to make his way to the laundry hamper so he leaves an undignified pile of clothes in a corner before throwing himself back-first on the bed, eyelids swooping down on their own. He sinks into it, soft and thick as a cloud, the bedside lamp on Jean's side a barely-there peachy glow that darkens and swirls from a mind slipping to a dream swiftly pulled back to reality when Jean climbs in next to him.

"You're not brushing your teeth?" Jean asks.

"No." He stretches out his arms, shoulders creaking. "I can't get out of bed anymore."

"Gross," Jean says, but he's smirking.

"Hey, I've carried you home while you reeked of alcohol many times. You can forgive me this once, I think."

Jean sits up, back to the headboard, smile softening. "Obviously." He threads his fingers through Nino's hair, grown long after Jean had wondered aloud how it'd look on him. Jean had liked it – he'd said as much, had wordlessly pulled at it with only bed sheets to hide what they were doing, but all the times he thoughtlessly plays with his hair are a better indication.

His fingers start at Nino's roots and carefully run to the ends of his hair, over and over, leisurely and lovingly, time safe on his side.

Suddenly, he stops.

"I'm at a weird kind of angle to do this," Jean says. "Put your head on my lap."

"But what about when you want to go to sleep?"

"I'll be fine. I can do this much for you."

Nino shifts, bed sheets swishing as he moves, to rest his head on Jean's thigh. He looks up at him looking down at him. The yellow lamplight flatters him, gets his hair more golden than it already is. It also brings out the finest of fine lines at the corners of his eyes, this proof he's lived, these faithful ghosts of old smiles.

Nino reaches out, needing to touch him, to affirm this is real.

It is.

"What?" Jean asks, smile deepening those lines.

Nino breathes out, rib cage empty of air and full of adoration, as he draws his hand back. "You're beautiful."

Jean brushes away loose strands of his hair, the band around his left ring finger cool in the brief moment Nino feels it on his skin. "You are, too."

"Why did you marry me?"

"Because I love you."

"Why?"

He sweeps back all of Nino's hair, forehead laid bare for him to murmur against it, "Who wouldn't?" He presses another kiss to him, one heartbeat longer than before. "It's somewhat late to ask that though, isn't it?" he says, smiling, hand on Nino's scalp gently making its way down.

His eyelids grow heavier, his smile quirks like a secret. "I know, but I just... you're a dream that came true."

"You sap," Jean teases.

"Says the guy cupping my cheek after he finished messing with my hair."

Jean humphs, but there's no annoyance in it, and past his smile it sounds more like a fond sigh. His hand traces Nino's jaw and neck, settling on his chest. "Go to sleep."

"You don't want to confront the uncomfortable truth of you being as sappy as me?"

"Go to _sleep_ ," he says, a little laugh slipping out of him.

"Okay," Nino replies, dutifully closing his eyes, smile incapable of going away. He _is_ tired, and his head is comfortable on Jean's thigh, the fingers weaving perfect nothings through his hair a palpable lullaby.

He thinks he mumbles an _I love you, Jean_ , but he could have simply thought it for the vivid secret it long was.

And he thinks he receives an _I love you, Nino_ , but it could be his mind filling in for the response he hears every day. But if it was a product of his imagination, it will be whispered to his ear come morning, as it was the morning last, and as it will be tomorrow, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [the visual for the ova made me actually immortal](https://twitter.com/Anime/status/1141556868202057729)


	51. the nights grow short

There is nothing particularly special about this summer night. Nino has been through countless others like it: the day's heat curling away; the stars dim sequins on velvet veiled by the city's light pollution; towering buildings with windows glowing yellow outshining the lampposts meant to guide people's way home; and those very people mumbling sleepiness to themselves, or perhaps sharing a laugh with others who also seek the thrill of the after-hours. Despite this repetition so common he can name its expectations, it brings on a smile genuine and serene, mind lost in the geometric spaces between trees' leaves.

Beside him, Jean leans further on his arm outstretched along the back of the park bench. The tiny square screen of his phone casts blue on his face speckled pink by wine. Nino's smile widens. Of course.

"What are we even waiting for?" Nino asks, teasing. If Jean asked – and for this excursion, he had – he'd wait anywhere for as long as was needed. "Don't tell me it's a text from someone. You only ever talk to me and Lotta. I'm right here, and she's definitely asleep at this time."

"Hush. Be patient."

Nino chuckles. "And I am, but I'm curious what's got you glued to your phone."

"You'll see in just a bit."

"How much longer is 'a bit'?"

"Less than a minu- there," he says, pocketing his phone, cupping Nino's face, and pressing a kiss to his cheek. A few heartbeats later, he pulls back, air rushing in to cool the spot he'd kissed. Nino sees Jean is smiling, soft as the night, his thumb running over his skin softer yet. "It's now July 7. Happy birthday, Nino."

Nino's laugh is quiet, barely disturbing Jean's bangs as he rests his forehead to his. " _That's_ what was so important you wanted to go sit in the park after drinking?"

"Yes. You're very important, and I wanted to tell you as soon as I could. I also wanted to be the first."

"Who else could possibly be first?"

"Lotta."

"But she's your sister. Why so competitive?"

Jean pouts. "I'm the one dating you."

Nino's laughs is just a hint louder. He takes Jean's hands in his. "And I'm really happy about that." He brushes his lips to Jean's knuckles and looks up at him through his lashes. "Thank you, Jean."

The color on Jean's face is not just from the alcohol.

"Are we doing anything tomo- later today?" Nino asks, letting Jean go, draping his arm over the bench, silently inviting Jean to curl back against him, which he does. They know each other well.

"I have a lunch reservation for the three of us," Jean says, head tilted to meet Nino's eyes. "I think we might be too tired in a few hours to go out for breakfast, but if you want to, we can."

"And dinner?"

"At a fancy hotel."

"Really?"

Jean's grin is thick as syrup, his eyes half-lidded. "We'll be spending the night there."

Nino's expression melts to match his. " _Really?_ "

"Bring what you think we'll need."

"Then we should go home and pack now."

Jean hums, wrapping his arms around Nino's waist. "Let's sit here a little longer." He uses Nino's chest as a pillow.

Nino's agreement is in his silence, in the way he carefully threads his fingers through Jean's hair. By the closest lamppost's false warmth he watches his breathing even, his eyes flutter slower with every blink.

"Hey, Nino?"

"Hmm?"

"When we get married, let's not have the wedding in summer. It's so hot. The only thing allowed to be hot in summer is you, and you always are, anyway."

A cricket gets in some undisturbed chirps in the time it takes for Nino to process this. "'When'?" he echoes, hand stilling.

"Yeah, 'when.'" Jean flits his eyes to him, a crease between his eyebrows. "If you don't ask me to marry you within the next year, I'm asking you, but I'm letting you know because I'm sure you want to be the romantic one."

"No, it wasn't that, it's- we've only been dating about a year. You're that sure you want to marry me?"

The crease deepens, accompanied by a downturn of his mouth. "Aren't you?"

"Yes- I mean, yeah, I've... thought about it." That's an understatement, but Jean does not need to know the extent or amount of time he's thought about it. "But I didn't want to assume anything of you."

"Nino, it's okay," Jean says, relaxing. "I know your old way of thinking isn't completely gone yet." He holds Nino closer. "And what I know you know, but that I'll remind you of every day if you want me to, is that I like you a lot and that I want to spend every day with you like this." He unwinds his left arm and holds his hand out. "Except wearing a ring."

"Oh, so you just _like_ me," Nino says, slowly fitting his right hand in between Jean's outstretched fingers. "Is that it?" He hears more than feels the relieved smile in his voice. After a lifetime of lies and presumptions, hearing the unabashed truth from Jean is an assurance he sometimes needs and always revels in.

Jean nudges him. "You know what I meant."

Nino rests his cheek on top of Jean's head, his silky hair half-obscuring a smile. "I think I'd like a reminder about that, too."

Nino is expecting a fond huff or eye-roll. Instead, Jean stretches up to his ear, his breathing tickling Nino. "It means I love you," he murmurs.

If Jean wasn't holding on to him, he'd float away. "I love you, too."

Pleased, Jean nestles against Nino's chest again, bringing their twined hands to his lap.

The croaks and chirps and rustles of the park's wildlife at nighttime fill in their comfortable silence. Nino thinks Jean has fallen asleep and is already thinking of what to say to whichever officer tries to chase them away at the park's closing time when Jean suddenly speaks.

"When I was eighteen," he says, "if someone had asked me where I saw myself in ten years, I'd have said 'somewhere with Nino.' I would have answered the same at twenty-eight. And at thirty-eight, it'll be the same thing." He glances at him. "Sorry it took me so long to realize."

"There's nothing for you to apologize about," he says. He means it. "It wasn't feasible until recently, anyway." And he'd waited for Jean to realize. He hadn't been asked to do so, but he'd waited, without regrets. He would wait again.

"I know. I still wanted to say it." He rubs his eye with his free hand.

"Sleepy?" Nino asks, smiling.

"Yeah. We can go home now." He extricates himself from Nino and stands, offering him a hand. His left. If it is on purpose, it doesn't show.

Nino is getting older. He has the laugh lines to show for it. But they're there because of Jean.

He welcomes their appearance.

Taking Jean's hand is the easiest thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [snorting cocoa powder] nino this is bc u were born


	52. awareness

Jean shifts his hold on the metal railing, the spot where he'd gripped it having uncomfortably warmed from his time leaning against it. He balances himself with a foot to the second rail, digging his phone from his pocket, teeth gently biting down on his cigarette to keep it in place. He doesn't need to scroll far to find the person he means to text, as he's the very top contact, and it also doesn't take him long to type _Where are you?_ Send.

A car leisurely passes perpendicular to him – the traffic on Sunday mornings is nonexistent – puffing smoke that mingles with his cigarette's in the soft spring sky. A shadow stretches on the pavement, and Jean thinks nothing of it until the person casting it leans close to him and says, in a wonderfully familiar voice, "Here."

He looks up, a smile easy on his face to go with Nino's. "Some timing you got there."

Nino straightens. "Sorry for being late. I was looking for my phone but I couldn't find it. I'm hoping it's at your place."

"We can go check now," Jean offers, standing.

Nino waves that away. "It's fine, we can go after our date. The museum's less crowded at this hour, and if my phone's at yours, it's not going anywhere." He pauses. "Actually, can you please ask Lotta if she sees it? Just to have that peace of mind."

"I would, but she's not home, either."

"Really? What's she up to?"

"She's out with a friend." He pockets his phone, stubs out his cigarette, and links his fingers between Nino's. "Let's go check really quick; I don't live far from here."

"We're liable to get distracted there, you know," Nino says, tone pointedly nonchalant.

Jean smirks. "Oh, I know."

He's dragging Nino around the block, his quiet laugh trailing after them, when Jean spots a blonde ponytail and a bob of pale hair he very much recognizes in front of a bakery's window. He stops walking and retracts his steps, half-hiding behind the corner building, Nino behind.

"Is that Lotta?" Jean wonders aloud.

"And is that _Mushroomhead_?" Nino says, his disapproval obvious. He looks down at Jean. "That's the friend you mentioned she was with? _Him_?"

"I wasn't being purposefully avoiding saying who. She really told me she was seeing a friend. I thought it was a school friend, too, not... him."

Nino's mouth turns down. "I don't like this."

Jean can't keep a quirk of his lip away. "Lotta's almost an adult, you know. She's at that age where dates start to happen."

"No, it's not that that's bothering me. Lotta's more of an adult than either of us."

"That's true..."

"What bothers me is she chose _that_ guy," Nino says, eyes jabbing in Rail's direction.

"He did look out for her when- well, you know." He pats Nino's hand. "He's not a bad person."

"Okay, but I don't like his hair."

Jean stifles a laugh. "That's hardly a reason to stop them."

Nino throws up his hands. "He's-!"

"They're moving," Jean says, watching Lotta and Rail walk further down the street, away from them.

And now it's Nino who's leading them in Lotta and Rail's direction at a measured pace and good distance back.

"Is this what we're doing now?" Jean asks, raising an amused eyebrow at him.

"Hush."

"Do you not trust her?"

"Of course I do, with my life. It's him I don't." His expression, carefully neutral, twitches. "What if he tries something and no one's there to help her?"

"He won't. I told you, he was good to her when I asked him to look out for her."

Nino swiftly evades passersby, Jean lightly pulled along. "Hush."

He's about to offer another reassurance anyway when Nino pushes him flat against the closest wall, one hand cupping his cheek, the other on his waist. He leans in to Jean's ear as if he means to kiss it, but he only stays still, only breathes. Jean's hands are squished between their chests. It's not terribly comfortable, and the bricks on the wall are digging onto his back. But with Nino so close to him, the suddenness of his movement, his tenderness and warmth even when they're on the street, it's not so bad, either.

"If you're waiting for my permission to kiss me," he says, a little impatient, "you know you always have it."

"Huh? Oh." Nino takes a step back. "That wasn't my intent. Lotta was about to turn around, so I had to act quick. But they've gone inside a café up ahead, so we're good."

He draws his eyebrows together. "Nino."

"What?"

"We're supposed to be on a date."

"We are."

"Watching over my sister is not a date."

"Think of it as learning surveillance on the go." He turns his head to the side. "Educational and whatnot. Real-life experience." He faces Jean, untangling himself from him. "Let's go inside the café."

"Nino, she'll be _fine_." He starts to walk them in the direction they'd come from. "Let's look for your phone."

"You're way too lackadaisical," Nino says, tugging Jean toward the café.

"No, you're being way overprotective. She can handle herself, Nino. She's growing up and we need to let her go as she needs. Rail already proved himself in keeping her safe when neither of us were here."

That gives Nino pause. He sighs, looks at Jean, gives a small smile. "You're right. Okay, we'll have a snack here and then be on our way. But put your phone as loud as it goes, in case she reaches out."

Satisfied, Jean smiles back. "You also owe me a kiss for that stunt you pulled."

"Hmm." Nino leans back to Jean's ear, lips ghosting that sensitive skin. "I think I can properly distract you at your place."

They go inside the café, where they're seated a few tables behind Lotta and Rail. They use their menus to cover their faces and hide their conversation.

"Do you think we could ask to switch tables?" Jean asks. "If either of them look up, they'll see us."

"I don't really want to be that guy. How are we gonna explain that to the hostess?"

"Yeah..."

"Anyway, as long as we're quiet, they won't notice. We won't be here long, either. I just want a pastry and coffee. You?"

"Just coffee; I skipped that this morning to meet you on time."

"Got it." He peeks over the menu and carefully puts it down, Jean doing the same. "For this trouble, I'll pay for us both."

Jean smiles. "How gallant," he says, laying a hand on the crook of Nino's elbow.

Nino takes that hand and brings it to his lips, now curving over it. "As befitting you."

Jean rolls his eyes, fondly, smile widening. Nino doesn't let go of him, instead settling their hands on the table. Jean does not let go, either.

The coffee comes steaming, the pastry with fruit seeming freshly picked. They both go one-handed in eating and drinking, Lotta and Rail forgotten.

So when Jean's phone rings loud enough to get others' heads turning their way, it startles them both, makes Jean bump his knee to Nino's, and in turn Nino's hits the table, cutlery clattering, coffee almost spilling from their mugs.

Jean fumbles in taking it out, first lowering the ring volume, then answering. "Hello?"

"How's the coffee?" Lotta asks.

Jean blinks at his phone. "The coffee?"

"Rail and I ordered orange juice – they make it here, you know, with oranges grown in the owner's garden! So I hope the coffee you and Nino got tastes as good."

Jean's mouth drops a little bit. Nino gives him a questioning look, and when Jean replies by swinging his head to Lotta's table, finding only Rail there, Nino mutters a, "Well, damn."

"It's good," Jean answers lamely, still looking at her empty chair. "The coffee." And, in trying to save face, makes a small change to the conversation. "You could have come up and asked us."

"Rail would have gotten nervous at seeing you two here. He'd be even more nervous if he realized you were here on purpose from following us."

He briefly puts the phone to his chest. "She knew from the start," he flatly tells Nino, whose eyes go wide as his plate. He tries to say something, but Jean puts his hand over his mouth, returning to the call. "How did you see us? This is supposed to be Nino's thing."

She giggles. "I probably wouldn't have if you two weren't so touchy-feely all the time. What other pair of blue and yellow-haired guys who can't stop flirting, even in public, would keep the same route as me? Honestly, that you took so long in getting together is embarrassing."

His ears are warming up. "We-"

"'-are going to go on our own date,'" Lotta finishes for him, "while Rail and I hang out. That's all it is, promise! I know he likes me but mostly I just think he's nice. I wanted to get food and go shopping and he offered to come with me and even pay, so obviously I agreed. Even if it was a date, you need to go to your own space, Jean. I'm not a little kid anymore. You can trust me."

He rubs his neck. "I know."

"Tell that to Nino, too."

"I will. It's really him that needs to hear it."

"Was that about me? What do I need to hear?" Nino asks.

"That this was your idea."

Nino frowns. "Hey-"

"By the way," Lotta says, "I saw Nino's phone on the dining room table. Though I don't know if he even noticed it was gone. You're both spacey like that."

"Oh. Thank you. He was wondering about it, actually."

She sighs, though Jean can hear the fondness in it. "Without me, you two would die or something."

He smiles a little. "Yeah. Enjoy your not-date."

"And you your real one! Bye!"

They hang up.

"So," Nino says, "are we grounded?"

Jean laughs. "No, but we have to mind our business." He motions to Rail with his head, who brightens as Lotta returns, all smiles. "She said it's not a date. Basically she's using his crush on her to get the food and things she wants."

Nino blinks. And starts laughing, resting an elbow on the table, touching his forehead. "You know, that figures more."

"But she said that if it was serious, that we especially have to mind our business there."

Nino mock salutes. "Heard loud and clear."

"And she saw your phone at home. It's on the dining room table."

"Well, that's a relief. How'd she spot us, though?"

He rubs his neck again. "She said there's no other pair of people with our hair color and tendency to not keep our hands to ourselves who'd be near her." He puts away his phone and thoughtfully sips his coffee. He looks at Nino from the corner of his eye. "Do you still want to go to my place after?"

"God, yeah." Nino takes his hand, fingers tracing the lines on his palm, weaving through the gaps between his fingers. "I owe you a distraction, don't I?"

Jean sets his coffee down with a smirk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have a disease that makes me write about [every ninojean thing i see](https://twitter.com/greenhillyang/status/1150865391184502785) it's called being a fucking genius


	53. risk factor

Nino doesn't like smoking by itself. It's willingly drinking in toxicity that chars the lungs and leaves an acrid eye-watering cloud behind. The smell of it lingers: walking on the streets, it's the first, most egregious sense that tells him a smoker has been here, followed by the confirmation of the nearest wall's discoloration and, occasionally, stubbed cigarettes on the ground. It's awful, really.

Except when it comes to Jean. Much like other things, Nino forgives this vice when the cigarette is in his hands. Then it's... elegant. Someone out of those old noir films they like to watch, but so terribly good for the screen he's stepped out of it and become speckled in color. White smoke rising from his pink lips, sometimes mixing with the gold of his hair when the wind doesn't favor him. The smell is different, too. Maybe because Jean's cigarettes are expensive; they could make up a tobacco undertone in high-end cologne and it would be perfect. Maybe, though, it's not that they're expensive that makes their thin wisps wonderfully intoxicating, but that it's Jean smoking them. And maybe it's not just the stuff in the tobacco making Nino's head spin; the things Jean keeps in his house could mix with it. There's something sweet in Jean's smoke. Bread? That would make sense.

Jean exhales the smoke and Nino finds himself leaning into it just a little.

"You're kind of quiet today," Jean says, tapping ash to the porcelain ashtray bearing this café's name. The end of the cigarette glows anew just breaths from his finger.

"Just thinking," Nino replies, making himself look anywhere else. The morning sun glinting off the opposite building's windows is nice.

"What about?"

A moment later, he says, "Nothing at all."

"Thinking heavily about nothing?" He can hear Jean's smile.

He peeks at him, because if he's being honest with himself he can't go long without looking at him, and sees the smile is true. It brings one to his own face, but where Jean's is amused, Nino's is fond – he's glimpsed it on mirrors to know he doesn't hide his infatuation very well. Unfortunately, Jean has the romantic awareness of a rock. "It's hard work, thinking about nothing."

Jean has put the cigarette down to nibble his pastry. A few crumbs get on the side of his mouth and Nino has to sit on his hands to keep himself from wiping them away. "I'm sure it is," Jean says. He must feel the crumbs, because his tongue curls out to lick them.

The street's a great place to stare at. Yes.

Jean's phone buzzing startles them both. Jean eyes the caller ID with some distaste. "Work," he says, almost apologetically, before he picks up. "Hello? Yes. Hmm. Did you check my desk, just in case?" He frowns, eyes flitting about the morning sounds of a busy eatery and passing cars. "My desk. It's okay, I'm outside. Hold on." He presses the phone to his chest. "I'll be right back, Nino. They can't really hear me here."

"Sure. Take your time."

Jean nods in thanks and walks down the street, disappearing around the block to the street that's a dead-end – quiet is assured there. The people around them keep talking, the cars on the street keep driving by. The cigarette on the ash tray keeps smoldering.

Nino tucks his hand under his chin and turns his attention back to the street. Briefly. The smoke crackling from the cigarette's fiery end beckons him. The cigarette had nestled itself between Jean's lips, had tasted Jean as much as Jean had tasted itself, had felt the tip of his tongue and his soft exhalations. Things Nino has only dreamed of, the damn cigarette knows.

Now Jean's not here, but he's left a little part of him behind. All Nino needs to do is reach for it and breath in what he can. It'd be over in the blink of an eye. Jean wouldn't ever know.

 _That's the problem_ , he chides himself, fingers curling. He's already breaking Jean's trust in too many twisted ways. This would be more physical and dangerous.

More intimate and enticing.

It wouldn't hurt Jean. He wouldn't even care; if Nino asked for a drag, he'd grant it. Though Nino has never asked, preferring to keep the scent of tobacco so heavy it coats his tongue as exclusive to Jean.

His mouth is suddenly dry, bereft of any flavor, the headiness of the smoke wrapping around his wrist, carefully lifting it, coiling him into the cigarette. And he takes it, swift as a secret. He drinks the smoke in and immediately knows he does not look as effortless as Jean. It tastes acrid, the most terrible wine he's ever had. He swallows a cough and quickly sets the cigarette down, having barely savored how his lips had curled where Jean's had.

So. He'd stolen a kiss from Jean in the most vulgar manner and couldn't even appreciate it. He hadn't even found out how he tasted like. Everything in his mouth was the smoke. But if his taste _is_ like the smoke, he'd much rather breathe it in as it slips from Jean's smirk. What he'd really prefer, rather than these underhanded methods, is to actually kiss Jean, but that's not going to happen. The paltry heartbeat's puff of a cigarette is what he gets – deservedly, for having moved into this at all.

"Sorry about that," Jean suddenly says, returned, making Nino sit up uncomfortably straight. He rounds the table into his seat, metal legs creaking on the sidewalk, and offers him a small smile.

"It's okay," Nino says, desperately not glancing at the cigarette, fearing that if he does Jean will know his crime.

And he doesn't. He picks up the cigarette and takes a drag without a second thought. White smoke, pink lips. Black lie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just think indirect kisses are hot and hotter yet w/ nino's weird pining situation is the thing


	54. corvid

"Jean!" Lotta says, high voice cutting through whichever room she's in to Jean's, her feet pattering on the carpet. She appears under the doorframe, bouncing. "Jean, let's go to the park! It's my last day of vacation and I wanna go outside one last time!"

He looks up at her from his book, over his glasses, and through a smile. "Why didn't you tell me earlier? It's already six, and you know bedtime is eight."

"I wanted to watch cartoons! But I'm bored now."

He chuckles, setting a bookmark between the pages, and slides out of bed. "Okay, we can go. But bedtime is still eight. Go put on your shoes."

"Yay!" She darts off.

It is a summer evening, with the sunlight coming through the living room window remaining strong, though the orange in the sky has deepened with the promise of sunset. Jean wiggles on his shoes, wondering how many other people are taking their kids out for one last happy time before school.

His lip goes down a bit. _I hope the park's not crowded_. He likes taking Lotta there and enjoying its tranquility. He likes less when a parent tries to talk to him – these are _parents_ , older than him, and they know what they're doing. But he can't exactly refuse conversation when they sit next to him or when their children are Lotta's friends. Despite his short time working for ACCA, he's learned enough about the petty politics within it to understand that such potential quibbles exist in any place people congregate. Even the park.

He pats his pockets for his keys – they're there, jagged and jingling – and his phone – also there, a slim rectangle – and has a thought.

"Hello?" Nino says on the other end of the line.

Jean smiles, as if Nino could see it. "Hi, Nino. Are you doing anything right now?"

"No. What do you need me for?"

Now Jean reddens and is glad Nino can't see it. _I'm that obvious?_ "Want to go to the park with me?" And, noting how it sounds, he adds, "Lotta wants to go and I want someone to talk to."

"I can go. Why do you sound embarrassed about it?"

He's _really_ glad Nino cannot see him. "Can you be there?"

"The park by your place, I'm guessing?"

"Yeah. Actually, come here first. It's big and I don't know where in it Lotta's gonna want to go."

"Sure; be there in a few."

They exchange goodbyes and hang up. Lotta is impatient, ready to leave, hand curled on the doorknob. But when Jean tells her they're waiting for Nino, she perks and takes a seat on the sofa, legs swinging, eyes watchful on the door.

Jean's lip quirks up as he sits next to her, patting her head. "We both like Nino a lot, don't we?" He meant it innocently, but there is heat on his neck that cannot be explained by it.

She turns her head up to him, expression confident. "I like him more."

"Wh- it's not a contest, Lotta."

"Nino should live here. When we go somewhere we have to wait for him. If he lived here we could leave right away!"

It's a good point. It's even something Jean has thought about – very briefly, and not often, but he has thought of it with nothing but a blush to show for it. He pats her head again. "Friends can be friends without living together. I'm sure he has his reasons for wanting to live alone."

"Can you ask him?"

He blinks at her.

A buzz at the door, thankfully; he gets up to answer but Lotta beats him to it, opening the door and immediately latching on to Nino's leg with a squeal.

Nino laughs. "Lotta, you're growing up! By next year or the year after that, you're not going to be able to do this anymore." He turns to Jean. His sunglasses are tucked into his shirt collar, loose from the sunglasses' weight, collarbone peeking out. He smiles, and because nothing covers his eyes, Jean can see the fullness of it, feeling it do funny things to his chest. "Can you help me out here, Jean? Otherwise I won't be able to walk and we can't go to the park."

Dutifully, Lotta hops off.

Jean and Nino share a look and a laugh, Jean's shakier than he'd like it to be. He ushers them all outside, locks the door, and takes Lotta by the hand as they go down the elevator. His other hand, nothingness around it, seeks the depth of his pocket. It feels more secure that way. But it doesn't feel quite right.

Out in the street, Lotta, despite her size, practically drags Jean to the park. Nino briskly follows, laughing.

Lotta decides to go on the see-saws, another child – a friend not yet made – also approaching it. There are less people than Jean thought there would be, and he and Nino find a bench to sit on as they watch Lotta giggle her way up and down, carefree as an eight-year-old could be.

"I remember when she started kindergarten like it was yesterday," Nino says, loosely crossing his arms, leaning back on the old wood bench. "Before we know it she's going to be graduating high school."

Jean smirks at him. "Are you wanting to sound like an old person? Because that's what I'm hearing."

Nino's smile comes a little late, a little softer than expected. "Sorry."

He doesn't know what exactly to do with this reaction and rubs the back of his head, flitting his eyes to a large cloud almost blocking the sun, brilliant where the light glows behind it. It floats above where the park meanders to greenery to be admired. On the dirt path leading to it walks a couple, hand-in-hand.

"Time does fly by, though," Nino says, startling Jean. "We've known each other, what, seven years now? In another seven years, you'll be twenty-nine. That's almost thirty. Very adult-y."

Jean looks to where Lotta is and imagines her as a teen. The image comes easily – she'd look like their mom, as elegant and charming. Then he looks to Nino, trying to picture him seven years older. He'd look the same, really. Smile ever quiet but kind, presence dependable. And then Jean wonders how _he_ will be like, what he will think or feel like. He purses his mouth.

"What's with that expression? You don't want me around another seven years?"

Jean's eyes widen, his hands hastily waving away such a suggestion. "No, I-"

The corner of Nino's mouth is turned up, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "I was kidding."

"Oh." Jean settles his hands on his lap. His eyes stray to the couple, who've parted and throw something to the floor – birdseed, it seems, as a flock of birds comes to peck at their feet. "Being almost thirty just seems like... a lot. Like I need to have done something important by then, otherwise it's..." He trails off, the uncertainty of this thoughts manifested in his words. He sighs. "I don't know."

The cloud by the sun has thinned out, and the whole of it is free, bathing the park beneath it in deep orange light. The birds' feathers reflect it, colors otherwise unseen burnished.

"Did you know crows mate for life?"

Jean picks his head up, eyebrows drawn together.

"I mean," Nino says, "barring exceptional circumstances, like death. They stick to one partner their whole life."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Jean asks, a smile finding its way to his face.

"You were looking at the birds." With his head, Nino motions to the flock: pigeons and sparrows and crows, these of which reflect cold rainbows on their sleek black bodies. "And I was very kindly changing the subject."

"Oh," Jean says again, quieter, suddenly interested on the grass molded softly to their feet.

Nino lightly elbows him – a wordless _It's okay_ , a gesture of reassurance – but it just makes Jean turn red. "Do you want me to buy seeds? I think the park has little machines that sell them."

"No, I was just looking at them." He pictures it anyway, the two of them with not a terrible distance separating them on the bench, tossing seeds at fearless birds fat from people's generosity. He feels a smile coming on. "The day we feed birds at a park we will genuinely be old people."

Nino laughs. The sun falls well on his hair, too, ablaze like a precious metal at the highest heat.

"Jean! Nino!" Lotta bounds up to them. "I wanna go to the swings now."

"They're right there, Lotta," Jean says. "You didn't need to tell us; we can see you from here."

"But I want Nino to push me so you have to come, too."

Nino laughs again as he stands, stretching his arms, muscles taut then relaxed. "We have no choice but to go, then," he tells Jean, with a grin that reminds him why so many people have also fallen for Nino.

He clears his throat. "Yeah." And he walks in front, the sun at this angle casting his oversized shadow to the left, where Nino follows.

Lotta hops on one of the swings and eagerly awaits Nino to drag her back. He grabs the chains, stepping back as far as the tension and length in them will allow. Lotta giggles in anticipation – and with a push, she's off, laugh reaching the top of the sky.

Jean has leaned against one of the swing set's legs. It is metal and warms him even through his shirt. But only half as much as watching them.

"You seem a little forlorn there, Jean," Nino says, looking at him quickly so he can keep his eyes on Lotta, though his smile had been unmistakable. "Take the other swing."

He folds his hands behind his back, returning the smile. It does not matter Nino can't see it. "I'm kind of past the target age."

"Who's gonna yell at you? No one else is at the swings." Another smile, quick and bright as summer lightning.

How can he resist that? "If someone does yell at me," he says, taking the swing next to Lotta, "you have to defend me."

God, his smile. "Of course."

The plastic seat, curved tightly to fit a child, barely holds him. He pulls the chains outward so they don't tangle in his hair. The ground smells earthy, mulch with wood chips, and as he hauls himself backward he digs the soles of his shoes into it, hesitating.

"I'm going to break this," he says, looking up at where the quivering chains are attached to the top beam.

"You are _not_ ," Nino says, and he pushes him.

The force had been gentle, a hand flat on his back in unspoken encouragement. Jean doesn't fly like Lotta had, but his hair still flutters, as does his heart.

The world blurs just slightly at the edges, expected of his swifter movement, but it remains recognizable. This is a park, those are trees, that is Lotta. There is Nino. Their eyes meet. Nino smiles. Jean returns it but has to glance away.

Lotta soon tires of the swings, the fullest height she could achieve short of a full trip around the set – which Nino promises he'll help her with next time. Next time, because where Lotta is, so is Jean, and then so too is Nino.

"The sun is about to set," Nino says. "I think we should call it a day."

"Can we get ice cream?" Lotta asks Jean, big eyes hopeful.

"We have a tub at home. Did you forget?"

"Oh! Yeah." She holds on to Nino's hand. "Come eat our ice cream with us, Nino!"

His easy smile and confidence falters. "I should probably go home-"

"It's just ice cream," Jean finds himself saying, a little too quick. He pauses, flicking mentally for an excuse. "You don't have work tomorrow, anyway."

"Yes, but-" Neither Jean or Lotta cut Nino off; it's himself, words apparently trapped in his throat.

He is like this, sometimes, giving the two of them everything but the stars themselves. But when Jean tries to do something similar, Nino only occasionally accepts – and that at Jean's insistence. There is always guilt on Nino's part when he does.

It's a little funny, simply because it goes so against the person Nino presents himself to be. Mostly, though, it bothers Jean. _Our kindness is real too, Nino_.

"You're coming," Jean decides, taking Lotta's other hand, and he walks onward, the small procession following by default.

Of course Nino could just let go of Lotta, but Jean is sure he won't. Not when he's been dragged this deep. It's too late to refuse without it being impolite. An underhanded tactic, Jean is aware, but they really do have too much ice cream at home. Too much space, too.

They walk – Jean on the left, Nino on the right, Lotta gleeful between them demanding they raise their arms to haul her up at random intervals. They do so, though it's really all Nino doing the lifting, and Jean's arm aches where it fits into his shoulder joint. But it's nice. What do they seem like to onlookers? A little girl resembling the person to her side – a blood relationship. But the other? And, moreover, a man? A man who, as any of these onlookers who wished to keep eyes on them for years would realize, stays close to them, shares his days with them. And yet that at a distance.

Jean steals a glance at him, in his smiling profile. His heart stops entirely as he thinks, loud enough he's certain everyone heard, _Nino, you should live with us_.

Then Jean shakes his head, emptying his head of any frivolities. The warmth speckled on his cheeks doesn't go away so readily.

Behind them, the sun kisses the line of the earth in ancient gold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> considering jean and nino's last names are [bird genera in the same taxonomic family](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/True_owl) i don't think it's That out-there that natsume ono chose nino's code name to be [a bird known for having just one partner over its life](https://www.birds.cornell.edu/crows/crowfaq.htm#mateflife). no u cannot take my tinfoil hat away from me


End file.
